


Terrific, Radiant, Humble

by knittycat99, nubianamy



Series: The Donutverse [13]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Donutverse, Drug Use, Gen, Kid Fic, Libraries, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knittycat99/pseuds/knittycat99, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nubianamy/pseuds/nubianamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana's mother becomes the housekeeper for one of the richest families in Lima Heights: the Andersons.  Santana/Blaine friendship, Dave/Blaine friendship, kidfic.  Pre-slash.  Part of the Donutverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindergarten

**Author's Note:**

> If you've never read the Donutverse, don't worry about it. This story can stand on its own as a friendship story between Blaine and Santana. But for those of you immersed in the Donutverse, this is backstory for Santana and Blaine that will inform future events. You can look forward to a chapter for each year of their childhood. Thanks to knittycat99 for cowriting, and supergreak for Brittana inspiration. Enjoy!  
> -amy

**Chapter 1: Kindergarten**

The house was really, really big, and Santana wasn't quite sure if it was okay for her to walk through the front hall with her shoes on, but the woman who'd answered the door didn't seem to mind. She followed her mother across the shiny squares of the floor and wondered what they were made of. Stones, maybe, or something fancier than that.

The little boy who peered at her through the banister, high above from the vaulted ceiling of the front hall, looked like he was about her age - six, oldest in her kindergarten class. His eyes were big, but he didn't make any noise, just watched them as she trailed her mother toward the dining room, wearing her nicest dress and nylons for her job interview.

Santana knew, even at six, that her mother needed this job, that it would mean roast beef in her sandwiches instead of bologna, and real ice cream instead of cheap popsicles, and clothes from the mall instead of hand-me-downs from her cousins. Since her Papi had met That Younger Woman and moved to a new house, she and her mother had needed to start thinking about a job and how to pay something called a mortgage. Santana hated That Younger Woman for making her dad move away from them, but her mother didn't seem to miss him all that much.

Santana was hovering outside the kitchen while her mother spoke with the woman who'd answered the door when she realized he'd come downstairs. He was quiet; sneaky, even. She liked sneaky.

"Hi," the boy whispered, swiping at the curls of hair, as black as hers, frizzing out all over his head.

"Is this your house?" she asked in a loud whisper. "It's really pretty."

"Santana," her mother called, sounding reproving, and she sighed, looking at the boy in appeal. He held out his hands uncertainly.

"It's just a boy, Mama," she said. "Can we go play?"

The woman who'd answered the door clicked over in her heels and regarded the two of them for a moment, then nodded toward the sunny porch off the kitchen. "Show Santana the backyard, Blaine," she said, and they smiled at each other.

"C'mon," Blaine said, taking her hand and letting the door slam behind him. "I have a secret spot." He led her down bricked paths, around planters and gardens that would be green in spring, and into a grove of trees and shrubs. There were pine needles covering the grass, and inside it was quiet.

"What do you do here?" Santana wasn't sure what the point was in having a secret spot and nothing to do there.

Blaine leaned closer to her. "I hide. Sometimes I color or read a book. If my mom would let me have a pony, I'd play with it out here."

"I don't think a pony would fit in here." Santana shook her head at him. "That's pretty silly."

"Not a real one. A My Little Pony. Erica in my class at school has _all of them_ , with the parlor and and _everything_!" He sounded absolutely miserable about this.

Santana nibbled on her fingernail. "I have some. Not the parlor, but a couple of the ponies. And one purple one. I could bring them with me next time when I come over, if my mom gets this job. But _I_ get to be the purple one."

Blaine's eyes went wide. "You'd share your ponies with me? Erica won't share her ponies with anyone."

"Well, duh," she said, rolling her eyes. "How much fun is it to play by myself? Not much."

Blaine looked down at his lap. "I have to play by myself a lot. You're right, it's not much fun." He sounded sad, and Santana wondered if he had any friends at school. She had _lots_ of friends, but Brittany and Kurt and Noah were her _best_ friends.

"What do you play, then?" She thought about her board games and her ponies and her Barbies and baby dolls, and the tea set that Kurt liked best of everything.

"I like to read books." He smiled at her. "Have you read Charlotte's Web?"

Santana couldn't read yet, but she didn't want to tell Blaine that. "Books are kind of stupid," she said, poking at the pine needle carpet with her foot, but when his face fell, she added, "but my Mama reads to me at night."

"I could read to you, if you wanted." He sounded nice about it, not like he would tease her at all.

"That might be fun," she allowed. "What's that book about, the one about Charlotte?"

"A pig named Wilbur and a spider named Charlotte. And there are all the animals in the barn, and Templeton the rat, and a little girl named Fern. It's _really_ good." Blaine nodded, and smiled.

"Fern?" Santana laughed. "What kind of a name is _Fern?_ Isn't that a _plant?"_

"She _rescues_ Wilbur, because her father was going to hurt him with an _axe!_ She _loves_ Wilbur, and feeds him from a bottle and everything until he's big enough to go to the farm." Blaine giggled behind his hand. "She even dresses him up and wheels him around in her baby carriage!"

Santana giggled back, despite herself, because the way Blaine was describing the story, she could actually see it in her head, like a movie. "She dresses up a _pig?"_

"Yes!" Blaine shrugged his shoulders and blinked his eyes, and Santana watched his long lashes flutter. "I guess Wilbur must have loved Fern a lot, because he _let_ her do it."

"I'd never let anybody dress me up like a doll," Santana declared. "I'd run away. I bet Wilbur the pig hated it."

Blaine lowered his eyes and peered at Santana, and when she looked at him she saw that his cheeks were pink. "I think it would be kind of nice."

"Hmmm," she said, considering this. "I guess I like dressing up, as long as _I_ get to decide what to wear. I have a dress with three skirts, like a princess. _And_ a ballerina outfit." She didn't mention that the outfits were from her cousins, not new at all, and that the dress with three skirts needed pins to be held together in the back. When she wore it, she felt rich and powerful. That was better than feeling angry at That Younger Woman for taking her Papi away.

"I don't have any dress up things. My dad says that dress up isn't something that boys do. But I still play it sometimes at school." Blaine nodded his head again. "And baby dolls, and house. I like those."

"My Papi says the same thing," Santana said, "but he doesn't live with us anymore, so I don't think he gets to tell me what I can do. I bet I could bring my dress-ups with me, too, if you wanted." She felt kind of protective of this little boy with the curly hair.

"Sometimes I wish my dad didn't live with us anymore," he whispered to her. "I don't think he likes me very much."

"Really? How do you know?"

"He always looks angry when I talk too much, or sing too loud. _One day_ , my mommy let me try on her shoes. Her _high heels!_ And I got to play with her perfume and lipstick. We did _make_ -somethings. It was my best Mommy day, until Daddy got home and then he was mad."

Santana nodded soberly. She knew how it was when her Papi got mad, how big his voice would seem, and how much she hated the feeling of helplessness when he told her she was a bad girl. "Did he give you a time-out?"

"No. Not that time." Santana heard Blaine's voice tremble.

"There were more times?" She knew what happened to bad kids when they did something wrong more than once, too. She put a hand over her mouth. "Did he - did he get mad at you?"

"Yeah," Blaine said, and Santana thought maybe he was going to cry. "He came to pick me up from Extended Day one day, and I was playing in the loft with Maddie and Heather. The blue dress with the sequins is my favorite, and we were cooking dinner, and Daddy's face got all angry. When we got home he told me that I shouldn't play dress-up anymore. And then- then- then- he _sp- sp- spanked me."_

As terrifying as this sounded, Santana coveted the idea of a blue dress with sequins. She thought it might be worth a spanking to get to wear one. "I hate it when my Papi does that," she said, slipping a comforting arm around his shoulder.

Blaine's eyes were huge. " _You_ get spankings, too?"

"Only when I'm really bad," Santana said. She giggled. "I'm bad a lot, though. Would you get in trouble if I brought my My Little Ponies over? I wouldn't want your dad to get mad at you." She puffed up her chest and stood as tall as she could. "He wouldn't spank _me,_ would he? 'Cause I could protect you."

"I - I don't know," Blaine said, still wide-eyed. "But I think he wouldn't do that to a _guest._ "

Santana's voice dropped to a whisper. "I could sneak in the dress-ups in my backpack, with my lunch and school papers. And the ponies could ride in there too. It would be a secret."

"I'd like that," Blaine said, looking up at her through his eyelashes. "It can be _our_ secret."

* * *

Blaine's mother caught him reading half an hour after his light was supposed to be off again, but she didn't look mad. She just took his book and folded the corner of the page and set it firmly to the side. "That's enough," she said softly.

"The librarian says we shouldn't do that to pages in books," he said, and she chuckled, brushing the curls off his face.

"When it's your own book, it's okay. And that poor old copy of Charlotte's Web is so old and dog-eared already, there's no way another fold could hurt it. It was _my_ copy, you know."

"Wow." Blaine was startled. "It's _that old?"_

His mother looked like she was trying not to smile. "Much older, even."

"Mommy?"

"Yes, honey?"

He hesitated. "Did you decide which lady to hire for the housekeeper position?"

"Well -"

"'Cause I think you should hire Santana's mommy, really, because it would be _so_ nice to have a friend to play with." His words tumbled out over each other, in his hurry to get them all out before his mother told him to turn the light off again. "She's really nice, Mommy, really she is - she has -" He paused, hanging onto the secret about the dress-ups and the ponies, because if his father heard about them, she'd never be allowed to bring them. "She has secrets too. I showed her my hiding place."

Blaine's mother didn't speak for a long moment. When she did, Blaine thought she might be having trouble, because the words came as slowly as Blaine's had come quickly. "You know... I wish... I'm sorry you don't have any brothers or sisters."

"It's okay, Mommy," he said. She nodded, and helped him lay back down on his pillow.

"You liked the little girl?"

He nodded. "Very much."

"All right, then." She stood and walked to the door, her silhouette in the light of the hall comforting and familiar. "I'll call her mother tomorrow."

"Thank you," he said, relieved, his eyes already closing.


	2. First Grade

On the first day of first grade, Blaine came home crying. It wasn't the first time, but after a whole summer of happy, relaxed Blaine playing with Santana, it broke Marisol's heart to see it happen again. She hustled him into the kitchen and set him up with milk and banana bread and sat down next to him, rubbing his back until his sobs subsided into sniffles.

"Tell me about it,  _cielito,"_  she murmured.

"Ian F-f-ortissman pushed me on the s-slide," he stuttered, blowing his nose on the tissue she offered.

She accepted the snotty tissue with usual good humor and tucked it away into an apron pocket. "How sad. Do you know why?"

"They were being m-mean. They said I couldn't play with them. They s-said it was b-because I t-told Mrs. Jackson last week when they were p-playing g-guns." He shook his head. "M-mommy always told me that wasn't a g-good thing to play."

Marisol stroked his curly hair. "That's true. I bet they didn't like you telling the teacher on them, though."

He took a bite of banana bread and chewed thoughtfully before whispering into her apron. "I don't think they like me anyway. I don't like the games they do."

She wished she could wipe away her unease about that idea and focus entirely on Blaine's sweet little seven-year-old fears, but something inside her told her these problems were just beginning for Blaine. It wasn't about not liking guns or tattling on his classmates.  _Blaine was different,_  she knew, in much the same way that Burt Hummel's little boy was. And she knew this was absolutely not going to fit in with Catherine Anderson's plans for him.

Instead, she said, "That's hard, knowing they don't like you. Can you think of a way you could invite them to play the games you  _do_  like?"

"But I'm the  _only_  boy who plays hopscotch, and I don't think the other boys  _like_  playing with the girls. But  _I do_." He poked at his unruly hair with a little finger. Finally he gave up and just blew his breath into the frizz that was brushing his forehead.

"Why do you prefer playing with the girls,  _mijo_?" She pushed his milk towards him. "Drink your milk, baby."

She waited while he took a healthy gulp, and only after he'd wiped his milk mustache very properly with the cloth napkin at his seat did he say anything.

"The girls like books and music. They're  _quiet_ ," he said earnestly, and Marisol understood. Blaine had balked at sports camp and T-ball and the rec department basketball team. Last week, she'd been cleaning in the office and there had been a flyer for flag football on Darren Anderson's desk. She'd laughed, because the man clearly didn't know his own son, but she'd had to fight the urge to take the flyer and crumple it into the pocket of her apron.

"Santana, she's not so quiet," she said, smiling, gently teasing. It was easy to tease Blaine too hard; he was so sensitive. Blaine didn't take it badly, though; he just shrugged.

"Santana's  _different._ "

Marisol knew Santana  _was_  different, was much stronger than Blaine would ever be, and with very clear ideas about what she wanted. She was proud of her daughter for taking this gentle boy under her wing - they'd clearly connected from the very beginning - and still hoped that her no-nonsense, fearless attitude might rub off on him, somehow.  _Or else life is going to be so difficult for you, little one,_  she thought sadly.

They were interrupted by the clatter of the back door and the slide of voices into the room. "Mami, banana bread?"

"Ask politely, Santana." Marisol stood and started reaching for plates and cups.

"Mrs. Lopez," Brittany said sweetly, walking into the kitchen and setting her backpack on one of the kitchen chairs, "may Santana and I have a snack, please?"

" _You_  may have a snack, Brittany. Sit down there, keep Blaine company." She watched Brittany drop into the chair next to Blaine.

"Hi, Blaine, I brought my new sticker book." Marisol set a plate and cup in front of her, and glanced at Santana, who was still sulking in the doorway.

Blaine smiled at her and bounced a little in his chair. "The Barbie one?"

"Yeah, the Barbie one. I saved a whole page of stickers just for you!"

"You saved a page for Blaine and not for me?" Santana's petulant whine drifted across the kitchen, and Brittany startled for a moment.

"Not in my  _Barbie_  book," Brittany said, like it was crystal clear. " _You_  have a whole page in my cool book with the unicorns and faeries."

"Oh," Santana said, mollified, and tossed her ponytail. "Okay, then."

Marisol brought her daughter a plate of banana bread after all, and Santana managed a muffled "than'you, Mami" between bites. Marisol sniffed, but that was about all she could expect from Santana. She was so much her own person - and, Marisol was sometimes sad to say, not always the nicest one. Blaine had plenty of  _nice_  for both of them.

Now, Brittany - Marisol smiled fondly at the little blonde girl, showing Blaine his page in the sticker book. She was sweet, if not particularly thoughtful, and she and Santana had become joined at the hip last year. When Santana had come home from kindergarten telling her Mami all about "her Brittany," it had been a turning point for her, to have a little girl friend instead of that troublemaker Noah Puckerman. Marisol was so glad Santana had Brittany in her class again this year.

"Don't be sad, Blaine," Brittany said, hugging his arm. "Ian is mean to lots of other kids. It's not because of you. He just likes to push people around."

Santana glared fiercely at her banana bread. "I just want to push him around right back."

"That's not going to help anything," Marisol objected, settling down in the chair at the end of the table. "How's he going to learn that people solve problems with words, not fists?"

"Martin Luther King, Jr. said that," Blaine said, and Marisol beamed at him.

"But that's not  _true,"_  Santana protested. "People  _do_  solve problems by hitting, all the time. Sometimes, somebody won't listen, Mami, and no matter how many times I tell the teacher, nothing changes - until I go in there and wallop him one. Then it's over, and he stops bugging me."

Brittany nodded. "And then he goes and hits Blaine."

"Well, not all the time." Santana looked annoyed by this challenge to her logic. "What about  _Papi?_  He spanks me when I'm bad."

Marisol was silent as she watched Blaine turn crimson. That filled in the answers to some questions Marisol had had about Mr. Anderson's treatment of his son. Marisol had few kind things to say about her ex-husband, but he  _was_  Santana's father, and had a right to parent her the way he thought was appropriate. Even if  _she_  didn't agree. She tried to control the tightening of her lips as she said, "Just because he does it doesn't mean it's the best solution. Or the kindest."

"It's not fair," Brittany said. "Some kids are just bigger than other kids. It's not fair when they hit the littler ones, right?"

"Right," Santana agreed.

Blaine drank his milk in silence. Marisol could see he was wrestling with something. "What if the  _little_  guys hit the  _big_  guys?" he burst out suddenly. "Would  _that_  be fair?"

"I think that sounds awesome," Santana declared, and Marisol hid a smile.

"I don't think it's ever fair," Brittany said. "No matter how bad they were."

"I'm always going to hit someone back, if they hit Blaine first," Santana said, with absolute conviction. "That's why I got in trouble today."

Marisol already knew about it. They'd called her from school to tell her about the fight, explaining carefully how Ian Fortissman had pushed Blaine down the slide, and Santana had immediately knocked him down and made him apologize to Blaine. And  _that's_  when Blaine had broken down into tears.  _He would have just taken it, the initial push,_ Marisol knew,  _if Santana hadn't called attention to it, made him speak it out loud._

She watched the three of them leave the table with a tight knot in her gut.  _Blaine wasn't afraid of bullies - though he might very well be. He was afraid of being noticed. Of being_ bad -  _or, at least, of not being good enough._  She wondered whose unkind words, or hands, had taught him that.

But not ten minutes later, she felt a soft tug at her apron, and she looked down to see Blaine, his hands wrapped around her middle. "What's this for,  _cielito?"_  she said, smiling in surprise.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For the banana bread, and for being so nice."

Her smile hung on for a long time after that.  _Nice._  Perhaps Blaine Anderson would be okay, after all. He was pretty terrific, just the way he was.


	3. Second Grade

**Second Grade**

"There's a new boy in my class," Santana told Blaine one warm October afternoon while they were digging weeds with Marisol.

Blaine rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to brush away the dirt, and squinted at her in the sun. "That would be hard, to come to a new school halfway through the year," he said.

"Oh, he's not new to school. He's just changing rooms. He got in big trouble in Mrs. Richardson's class when Davey Karofsky told him to cut off Quinn Fabray's ponytail."

"That's awful," Blaine declared. Blaine coveted straight hair. If he could have had hair that made a ponytail, he would have been completely happy, but his hair was curly and bloomed from his head like a dandelion. Santana said it was actually beautiful, but he knew at the same time that she understood how it felt not to like something you had, to wish things were different.

"Yeah, awful," she said, smirking. "Noah's kind of a bad kid, but I think he's really funny."

"Santana," her mom warned, waving the pruning shears at her. "That boy, he's not a good influence. I know his mother. You stay away from him, understand?"

"Oh, Mami, he's all right," Santana said. "Playing with Noah's not going to make me do anything bad."

Blaine knew Santana was more likely to come up with naughty things to do than anyone else was. She'd told him about Noah. It wasn't exactly that he was easy to boss around, she said, but you could persuade him to do things if you were a little bit pushy. Santana was good at being pushy. ("Noah needs a good friend, someone who won't get him in trouble," she insisted, "and he'll be fine.")

"I wish you went to my school," Blaine said wistfully, not for the first time.

"No way," said Santana. "I wish you went to  _mine._  Then you and me and Brittany could all play together at recess."

"When you're in sixth grade, you'll go to the same school," Marisol pointed out, piling the weeds in the wheelbarrow. "The elementary schools in Lima Heights combine."

"Mami, that's  _forever_  away." Santana was dismissive. "Why can't Blaine go to school with me now?"

"It's just the way things are,  _niña chiquita._  I don't think you can do anything about it but wait." She regarded them with amusement. "You still get to see each other every day after school, and all summer. Isn't that enough?"

"No!" Blaine and Santana chorused. Marisol laughed and handed Blaine a rake.

"Here. Get started on the cauliflower, and be careful not to poke them."

They finished clearing the weeds away from the big heads of cauliflower, nearly ready to harvest, and hurried the wheelbarrow over to the compost pile and back, chasing each other between rows of squash and collards. "Done, Mami," said Santana. "Can we ride our bikes to the park?"

Marisol rolled her eyes. "Your endless energy. It's so tiring, Santana. All right, all right, go to the park. But be back by dinner."

"Sweet," Blaine said, pumping his fist and already halfway to the garage for his bike. Santana followed him a little more slowly. Blaine knew she loved riding her bike as much as he did, but she hated wearing her helmet because it smashed her ponytail holder into her head, and that  _hurt_.

"C'mon," Blaine waved at her from the end of the driveway. He jammed his helmet on over his hair impatiently.

"What's the hurry?" she called, wheeling her bike out into the driveway and kicking up into the seat.

"I just want to ride. You  _know_  I like going fast!" Blaine chewed at his lip. "Do you think, is it too far to go to Faurot Park? They have the half-pipe and we can do tricks on our bikes."

Santana shook her head. "I won't tell Mami if you won't."

Blaine smiled. "Deal."

It took them a long time to get there, but they took the back roads, over the river and past McClintock Lake, through the neighborhoods. They only had one big road to cross, and Blaine was careful to watch at the light and cross where it was safe. They were tired, but not  _too_  tired to play once they got there.

There were only two other boys in the park when they arrived. "It's Finn," said Santana, sounding disgusted. "He's such a goody-two-shoes. I'm always the one to get in trouble when he's around."

Blaine hesitated, foot on his pedal, glancing at the bigger boys laughing and climbing. "Should we go across the river to Collett Street instead?"

"No way. I'm not letting stupid boys chase me away from our park." She swung off her bike and dropped the kickstand with the heel of her sneaker, and Blaine waited while she spent an endless amount of time fidgeting with her ponytail. He just shook his hair away from his head and clipped his helmet straps closed before hanging it off his handlebars. The half-pipe was pretty cool, and he had known it would entice Santana. But he liked the swings best of all, and set off across the playground, toward the other boys.

"What about the half-pipe?" Santana called to him, and the boys lifted their heads from the sticks they were using to dig in the sand between the animals on springs.

"I want to swing. I feel like flying today," he called back to her, and kept on walking. He didn't know why he liked it so much, the feeling of the air around him and the way the motion made his stomach flip like the big roller-coasters at the amusement park, but it made him feel free.  _Radiant._ And some days, feeling free was the only way he felt real.

"Swings make me want to puke," she yelled, but she didn't look too upset. Santana was hard to predict some days, but she understood him.

Blaine settled himself into the rubber swing. The chain was a little cool under his hands, but that was so much better than it being hot. He pumped hard, because he couldn't wait to get high enough to jump off. When he was high enough and fast enough to feel the sun hot on his face and the breeze tickling his hair against his ears, he took a deep breath and hurled his body off the swing into the air. He flew for an instant before hitting the ground with a  _thunk_ , and he felt the vibration in his skull for a moment before his eyes re-focused on the taller of the boys standing in front of him.

"That was awesome, dude," said the boy. He tipped his head back to where Santana was standing with the smaller boy, sneering at him and trying not to watch Blaine, because he knew that sometimes even watching someone swing made her feel like puking. "Finn doesn't like the swings. Can I swing with you?"

Blaine shrugged. "Sure, if you want. Do you like to go high, too?"

The boy's face lit up and he nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! I get in trouble sometimes at school 'cause we're not supposed to jump off." He lowered his voice and scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. "Last week, at after-care, some fifth grader fell when he jumped and broke his arm, and they had to call an ambulance and everything. But I still want to. Jump."

"Cool," Blaine said and nodded to the other swing. "I'm Blaine," he said as he scooted back into his.

"I'm Davey," the boy said, smiling through his missing front teeth. "Bet you can't swing higher than me."

"Bet I can!" Blaine tipped his head back and pumped and pumped and  _pumped_  until he could feel the chain start to buckle under his hands. "Ready?" he called into the wind, and waited until after he heard Davey's  _yeah_  before launching himself out of the swing.

He knew as soon as he let go that he wasn't going to land on his feet.

There was no  _thunk_. There was just his brain thinking  _oof_  and then he was coughing and blinking away a mix of startled tears and stinging sand. His palms and knees burned, and he could feel the dust in his teeth.

"Ugh." He blinked again and tried to find a clean spot on his shirt to wipe his hands. He'd fallen enough to know not to wipe his eyes with sandy hands, because that just made things  _so much worse_.

"That's why you shouldn't jump off the swings," an unfamiliar voice said from above him, and Blaine tilted his head sideways to peer at the boy who had been with Santana.

"Shut up, Finn. Get my water bottle," Davey said from behind him. "I'm sure he feels bad enough, he doesn't need you being playground monitor."

Blaine waited until Finn had started across the playground before turning to Davey. "Thanks."

He helped Blaine to his feet and brushed off the back of his pants. "Don't thank me yet. I don't think you scraped too bad. That was kind of an awesome face plant, though. You okay?"

Blaine tried to spit the dirt out of his mouth. "If I can clean my face up, I'll be fine till we get home. Nothing's broken. I don't think."

"They said in Cub Scouts that broken things look crooked, and you don't look crooked. So I guess that's good." Davey smiled at him, and started to slip his arms out of the sleeves of his yellow t-shirt. "Here. When Finn comes back, you can use my shirt to wash up. I have my undershirt."

"That's okay," Blaine said, waving his hand. "You don't have to do that. Just water will be okay."

"My mom wouldn't like it if I told her you fell and I didn't help. And really, I  _hate_  yellow." Blaine reached his hand out and took the shirt. It was still warm, and Blaine hated to get it dirty with sand and tears and the little pinpoints of blood that the sand had left on his palms.

"Here," Finn said, jogging back into their little circle and thrusting a half-full water bottle under Blaine's nose.

"Do you want help?" Santana's offer sounded half-hearted at best.

"No," Davey said. "We're okay."

"Good," Santana sighed, and Blaine almost laughed.

"Santana hates blood," he said to Davey and Finn. "Over the summer I fell off at my riding lesson and got a bloody nose and she almost passed out!"

"Shut up!" Santana shook her head at him and turned away. "Get cleaned up fast, or I'll ride home without you. And then we'll  _both_  be in trouble."

"Fine," Blaine muttered, spilling some water over his hands and rinsing them as clean as he could before dampening Davey's shirt and rubbing his face clean. Without dust clumping his eyelashes, he could see better. He was a total mess. His clothes were brown with sand, and he'd scraped both his hands, and his left elbow, and it felt like he had banged up his left knee a little bit, but he didn't want to roll his pant leg up to check. He looked into the bottle, at the last little bit of water at the bottom, and then back at Davey.

"Can I?" he asked, because he  _really_  hated the feeling of sand in his teeth, but he didn't want to push Davey's generosity.

"Sure," Davey said. "I can fill it up at the drinking fountain before we go."

"Thanks," Blaine said, tipping the water into his mouth. He walked over to the bushes while he swished it around, because he didn't think it was polite to spit in front of people.

"Blaine! C'mon! Mami is going to be mad that we didn't come right home when you fell." Santana was over by their bikes, her hated helmet already on her head and her foot tapping.

"Jeez, 'Tana. I'm  _coming_." He bounced back over to Davey, holding out both t-shirt and water bottle. Davey took the bottle, but shook his head at the t-shirt.

"Please," he told Blaine. "Keep it. You're saving me from yellow, I promise."

"Thanks," Blaine said, smiling, as Davey's warm fingers brushed his. "Maybe we can swing together again sometime."

"Yeah," Davey said, and Blaine didn't look too hard but he could tell that Davey was blushing a little bit.

"I gotta go," Blaine shrugged. "I don't want 'Tana or her mom to get too mad." He started off towards his bike, and he turned when he was at the edge of the playground to wave, but Davey was already walking away towards his own bike, his head down against whatever Finn was scolding him about.

"He's nice," he said to Santana as he buckled his helmet.

Santana just grunted. "You only think that because you're a boy."

Blaine settled onto his bike and followed Santana out of the park toward his house. He lagged behind her. He didn't feel like flying anymore, and he didn't understand what being a boy had to do with anything at all.


	4. Third Grade

**Third Grade**

Blaine reviewed the list of Santana's birthday guests. "You have a lot of friends," he said, nibbling on a cookie.

"Always have," she said, not boasting, just stating a fact. "You've got to learn, Blaine, you have to be a little bit mean to make people want to hang out with you."

"I don't think I'll ever know how to do that," Blaine said.

"Nope. You're way too nice." Santana shook her head at this obvious fault. "But you can still come to my birthday party."

"Good. Because I want to meet all your friends." He'd been hearing about her friends for three years, but he'd never been able to go to her parties in the past. He was only lucky this year because his father was out of town and his mother was staying home because there was nobody to stay at the house with Blaine for the weekend. His father never approved of him playing with Santana because of who her mother was, but that didn't make any  _sense_  to Blaine. And Santana's mother, Marisol, was  _great,_  anyway. She made awesome cookies, for one. He took another of them.

"You're one of my best friends, too," she pointed out.

"I'm not a  _school_  friend, though," he said, around the cookie, and blushed at the compliment.

"I think everybody will be able to be there. We'll be at Faurot Park. It's going to be  _perfect."_  Santana surveyed the list with satisfaction. "Brittany, of course."

Blaine nodded. "She's your best friend."

"Yes. And Noah; I've known him since we were really little. His Ma and my mother are friends. And Kurt."

"Who's he, again?" It was hard to keep all of Santana's friends straight in his head. He had imagined what each of them might look like, but he wasn't sure how close his imagination would come to reality.

"He's a lot like you, actually." Santana tilted her head and looked at him sideways, in that way that always made him feel like she could see inside his skin. She waved her hand in the air. "He likes books and things. Dress up. All that. But . . ." She tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth and dropped her voice to a whisper, "he's been sad a lot. Something's wrong with his mom. She's really sick, something the grownups like to talk about but I don't really understand. He'll be at the party, he told me so, but he might not feel like doing party things."

"That's terrible," he whispered, leaning across the table. "I hope she'll be okay."

Santana shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think so. Kurt missed almost the  _whole week_  of school last week."

Blaine imagined what it might be like to have another friend who liked to play dress-up. A  _boy._  His father was already cracking down on his imaginative play at home. He'd made Blaine pack his dress-up collection into a box and put it in the pull-down attic above the third floor east wing hallway. It had hurt to see all those pieces of his childhood get put away, as if, just because he was nine, he wasn't allowed to pretend anymore. Blaine had kept a few things, had hidden them from his dad the way he and Santana used to hide their My Little Ponies, but he didn't dare to take them out. Just knowing they were there was enough.

"What do you want for your birthday this year?" he said, changing the subject. Santana always knew what she wanted. Blaine mostly looked at the toy catalogs and picked something that he figured his father wouldn't object to, and then after a few weeks he put it on the shelf and forgot about it. Except for books - he never failed to read those at least twice.

Santana named the items on her wish list. "I want the Polly Pocket Hangin' Out House, and the Capsela Bug Builder, and the Bratz Stylin' Salon. And Brittany will pick out some clothes, because she's totally stylish like that. And riding lessons, but I don't think my mother will go for that." She grimaced. "It's been three years since she took me riding, and I think she's  _still_  traumatized."

"Who would have expected the horse to bolt like that?" Blaine shrugged.

"And was that my fault?" she protested. "She's punishing me because she's afraid to get near them. I mean, I would get my Papi to drive me, if it came to that."

Blaine had taken horseback riding lessons for the past two years. He didn't talk much about it with Santana, because he knew she would feel jealous. And, anyway, he didn't really care much for riding. It was just something he was expected to do, as all Andersons could play polo with the best of them.

Marisol breezed through the kitchen, clearing the plates from the table and leaving behind glasses of chocolate milk. "Don't forget to do your homework, Blaine," she said. Her voice was stern, but Blaine knew what that meant, and he wasn't worried.

"Yes, Marisol," he said. He lifted his bag from under the table and pulled out his math book and the social studies worksheets from yesterday.

Santana was scowling at him. "What?" he asked.

"You're always doing what you're  _supposed_  to do," she said, unzipping her own backpack. "And that means  _I_  have to do what I'm supposed to do, too, or else I'll look stupid. It's totally not fair."

"But you made Honor Roll last semester, didn't you?" Blaine tapped his pencil on his math book and looked at her smugly. He knew she'd been secretly proud.

"Yeah, but they put those stupid lists up in each classroom at my school, and only  _dorks_  make Honor Roll." She looked down at the torn paper-bag cover on her science book. "It's  _embarrassing_. I'm not supposed to do  _that_ well."

"You said Kurt was smart. Is he a dork?" Blaine stared at her pointedly as he carefully wrote his name at the top of the blank notebook page. "You wouldn't be friends with a dork."

"I'm friends with  _you,"_  she snapped, and they both cracked up.

* * *

The crowd began to gather in the pavilion along the river, and Blaine sat by himself for a while before Brittany came up to him and sat right next to him, chattering about his shoes and his bow tie. After that, some of the other kids came over, and Blaine started to be able to put faces to names. He got to introduce himself to Noah, but then he went over to tease Santana and some of the other girls. Blaine didn't feel comfortable talking to girls like that; his mother said he should treat girls with respect.

"What did you get her?" said a blonde girl - Quinn, he remembered - to Brittany.

"Clothes," Britt said, shrugging. "She always wants me to get her clothes."

Blaine noticed a quiet boy sitting by himself beside the cake. "Who's that?" he asked Britt.

"That's Kurt," she whispered, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "He's the one who's always sad."

"Why is he sad?" Blaine was curious, because even though he didn't know all the kids, he didn't think that being sad at a party was even really  _allowed_ , if there were rules for parties like there were for everything else.

"We're not supposed to talk about it," Britt said. "His mom is sick, but my mom says it's not polite to talk about people when they're not around."

"Oh." Blaine wasn't supposed to do that either, so he kept his eyes busy, glancing around at the other kids until he settled on someone he  _did_ recognize. "Is that, um. Finn?"

Brittany laughed. "Yeah. Finny Hudson. He's in our class, so Mrs. Lopez  _made_  'Tana invite him. But  _he's_  all mad because his best friend Davey is in Mr. Tompkins' class and Davey  _didn't_  get invited."

Blaine hadn't liked Finn, that day in the park. But he would have liked to see Davey again, to swing with him and maybe have a boy at the party who wouldn't tease Blaine for the funny things he did and said.

Santana got everybody to stand in two lines facing each other to play Red Rover, all except Kurt, who just sat by himself and looked sad. Blaine wished he could go sit with Kurt and talk to him, because when he was feeling sad like that, he just wanted someone to be with him and let him know he wasn't alone, but it was Santana's party and  _she_  wanted him to play Red Rover. Even though he was terribly clumsy and didn't help her team at all.

But before they could even get to eating cake, it became clear that the weather was not going to hold out. Santana scowled at the sky, as though she could deny the rain with the force of her personality. "This is  _totally_  unfair," she fumed, as the drops began to fall. All the party guests scurried to the pavillion, huddling together in the center where they only got rain on their legs. Marisol was prepared, at least, and she had lots of huge trash bags to hold all Santana's presents and to cover the cake.

"We'll stay for another ten minutes," Marisol said to Santana over the sound of the wind, "but I'm pretty sure it's going to thunderstorm,  _chica,_  and I don't think anyone's going to have much fun if it keeps blowing like this."

The expression on Santana's face could have frozen the rain into sleet. "Not fair," she said again, but she deferred to her mother, and Mother Nature. Possibly she just didn't want her presents to get wet.

Blaine was helping Marisol get the cake covered up and ready to take back to the car when he heard his father's voice say, " _Blaine."_  Like he really meant it, and if Blaine didn't pay attention, he was going to get it.

"Daddy," he said, pleading. His father looked really mad, but Blaine didn't know why. Unless... unless...

He reached out and took Blaine's hand, very firmly, and began to walk away. "You are going home  _right now._ "

All the kids were staring at him. He just wanted to disappear into a hole, anything to get them to stop watching. "Daddy," he said again.

"This is not a place for you," his father said. Blaine could either walk with him, or resist and make a worse scene, so he just went quietly, but they could all hear his father's furious voice, and Marisol - Marisol was watching him with such sadness in her face. She wouldn't look at Blaine's father.

"Santana's my best friend, Daddy," he protested, but quietly.

"That is not acceptable." His father's icy tone made him shiver, even in the warm weather. "We're going to need to discuss this friendship with your mother. You spend entirely too much time with those... those  _people."_

There was nothing Blaine could do but get into the car, wet and shivering, and burst into tears, which just made his father more angry. "Blaine," he said, with frustration and concern. "Why do you have to be like this?"

Blaine didn't know what he was like, but he knew it wasn't good.

* * *

The rain was still coming down in buckets when Blaine rang Santana's doorbell. She looked a little surprised to see him standing there, but she didn't tell him to go away, so he figured it was all right.

"Britt's here," she said. "We're having cocoa. You want some?"

"I'd love some," he sighed. She put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"Is he done being mad?"

He shook his head. "Not even close. The stupidest thing is that I don't even know what I  _did."_

She hesitated. "I think I know why," she said, in a low voice. "The way my Papi talks about African-Americans... it's not fair, and he's almost always wrong about it. Racist, my mother says." She didn't look at Blaine. "I guess your dad is, too, but about people like me."

Blaine felt a rush of anger. "You're right," he said. "It's  _not_ fair."

Brittany came into the kitchen, carrying a wet box. "Here's the rest of your cake. It's not too soggy. Hi, Blaine."

"Hi," he said, peering into the box with interest. Santana got three forks from the drawer, and they all dove in. She went right for the frosting roses, but Brittany seemed to prefer the chocolate cake part. It worked out perfectly.

"You want to play Go Fish?" Britt suggested. They dealt the cards amidst splotches of frosting and spilled cocoa. Blaine felt the envelope in his pocket, but waited until Santana had won two games before he pulled it out.

"Happy birthday," he said, handing it to her.

"Hey, thanks," she said, smiling at him. "You already got me a present."

"That was my mom," he said, shaking his head. "This one is from  _me._   _Just_  from me."

He held his breath as she ripped open the card and looked at the funny cartoon on the front long enough to laugh, but when she opened it, she stopped laughing. "Blaine? What -?" She pulled out a computer printout of a picture of his quarter horse, Peanut, wearing his English saddle and looking very handsome, with his three white socks and white blaze down his nose.

"You didn't get me... a horse?" she said, confused.

"Sorry, no," he giggled. "Um, but I did get you horseback riding lessons."

Brittany's eyes were as big as her cake plate. "Whoa."

Santana held her hand over her heart. "Dios mio. Riding lessons?" Her voice was a squeak, and Blaine could see that she was shaking lightly. "Real lessons? On a  _real_ horse?"

Blaine giggled again. "Yes. Real lessons. On Peanut. At my house, even, so your Papi doesn't have to drive you."

"You were right, San," said Britt, licking frosting off her finger. "He  _is_  smart. And nice." She grinned. "You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

Santana held Blaine's eyes for a second before whipping her head around and smiling at Britt. "Blaine doesn't  _like_  girls, do you Blaine?"

Blaine felt his face go pink as he stared at Santana's bobbing ponytail and her sickeningly sweet smile. He stuttered over what to say, but then she was patting him gently on his arm. "It's okay. I don't think Kurt likes girls either. And besides, I'm the best secret keeper. I won't tell anyone."

 _That's good,_  thought Blaine, his stomach churning.  _Because I think my father would actually kill me if he thought... if he knew..._

"But San?" Britt swirled her fork through some frosting before sucking it off the tines. "You just told Blaine about Kurt.  _That's_  not being a good secret keeper."

"Oh, please," Santana huffed. "It doesn't matter if the person I'm telling  _also_  doesn't like girls. That's not telling a secret, that's just like a public service or something. So that Blaine doesn't think he's the only one."

Blaine hadn't even gotten as far as thinking  _he_  was really... like Santana said, but it did make him feel a little better to think that there might be other boys like him, somewhere out there.

It made him feel even better when Santana came around his side of the table and put her arms around him, hugging him tightly, and whispered into his ear, "Thank you, Blaine - that was the best present I ever got."


	5. Fourth Grade

**Fourth Grade**

Blaine shook the rain off his jacket before stepping into the library, and he took his glasses off first thing. He  _hated_  the way they would fog up, but he also kind of liked how blurry everything looked before his eyes adjusted to being without them. He wiped them on the hem of his shirt, and settled them back onto his face, because he really didn't want to trip on anything. Or anyone.

"Blaine," came the quiet voice from the counter. It was Paula, his favorite children's librarian, working at the checkout desk. She gave him a smile and beckoned him over.

"Something came in that I thought you would like," she said. She was always suggesting new things to him, giving him books to read that she thought would inspire him or make him laugh. She had more hits than misses. It made him feel special that she remembered him, in the midst of all these books, and thought about  _him_  when she saw a particular title.

She nestled it conspiratorially into his hands. "It's so new it doesn't even have a bar code," she said in a whisper. "Even the bookstores aren't allowed to put it on the shelf until tomorrow. But I can get it ready to check out if you want it."

"Wow," he said, feeling awed. "Thanks, Paula. It looks really good." This one had a dragon on the front.  _Eragon,_  it was called, and it was fat and promised adventure and escape, which was exactly what he liked.

Now that he was eight and could read just about anything he wanted, even from the  _grownup_  section, Paula had more things to pick from. And Blaine was starting to learn which books he could read around the house and which ones he needed to hide in his backpack or in his secret treasure box. Because he was pretty sure that his dad wouldn't approve of some of the things Paula gave him.

Last month she'd given him the most incredible story about Herald-Mages and Bards and magical horses called Companions. The story was compelling enough, but when he realized what was actually going on for Vanyel, that he was -  _gulp_  - in love with another  _boy,_  that it was actually on the page in print and the world  _didn't end_  when he read it... well, that was pretty amazing for Blaine. He made sure to hide that book  _really deep_  in his backpack. And to ask Paula to get him the rest of the series.

Blaine took Paula's new dragon book and went off through the maze of the adult fiction section to locate a quiet place to read. There were plenty of tiny corners in the library where a smallish boy could usually find a place where no one would see him. Which was exactly what Blaine wanted, most of the time.

This week, one of his most favorite corners was already occupied. As Blaine drew nearer, he realized it was somebody he recognized. He'd seen him around, at the park mostly, but also a couple of times with his parents at the grocery store and once at Breadstix. But they weren't school friends or home friends, or any kind of friends at all, and Blaine knew there was no way to explain how he knew the boy.

 _Davey_.

"Hey," he whispered, his backpack slipping off his shoulder and the new book dangling from his hand.

Davey looked up in surprise, tucking his finger between the pages of his book to hold his place. "Hi," he said shyly.

"Whatcha reading?" Blaine let his backpack fall to the floor, and tried to catch a glimpse at the book's cover.

Davey blushed a little, but tipped the book back so Blaine could see. "Anne McCaffrey. Paula thought I'd like her books."

"Is that your first one?" Blaine was excited. None of the kids in his class liked fantasy books at all.

Davey shook his head. "I've read a couple of the others. You?"

Blaine sat on the carpet in front of Davey's chair. "All of them, over the summer." He looked out the window at the rain. He held out the book Paula had given him, feeling important to have it  _first,_  before it even had a  _bar code_  or anything. "I like fantasy, too. Look at this."

"Oh, I read that one," Davey said. "It's good."

Blaine felt a poke of disappointment. There was no way Davey had read that book - Paula said it hadn't even been released in the store yet. He must be lying. He didn't know why, but Blaine had thought Davey was  _different._

He sighed. "Why are you by yourself?"

Davey shrugged. "Nobody else around."

"What about Finn?" Blaine was curious, because he thought the boys were friends.

"What about  _Santana_?" Davey shot back, suddenly angry.

"She's with Brittany, doing stupid  _girl_  things." Blaine felt left out a lot, now that Santana was interested in clothes and makeup and boy bands and spending all her time with Brittany. Back before school started, she'd tucked a finger under her shirt and pulled out a white elastic strap, her eyes dancing. "My first bra," she'd told him, excited. Blaine just felt queasy. He didn't want to think about girls that way. About  _Santana_  that way. Because  _that_  made him queasy, too.

"Girls suck," Davey said with conviction. "And so does Noah freaking Puckerman."

"That bad boy from your school?" Dave looked at him in surprise. "What? Santana tells me things." Blaine pushed his glasses back up his nose and tried to pat his curls back down from the halo the rain had caused.

"Whatever, rich boy." Davey shifted, and his bare leg brushed Blaine's arm. Blaine felt a jolt of electricity pass through him at the touch, and he moved away as quickly as he could without being obvious about it.

"What did Noah do wrong?" He rubbed his arm where Dave had touched him.

Davey scowled, hunching over his book. "Stole my best friend. They're always doing stuff together now. Finn is  _such_  a mama's boy. He's too  _nice_ for Noah." He sighed, tapping his book on his knee. "Whatever. At least it gives me time to read, I guess."

"Books are awesome," Blaine smiled. He didn't always know what to talk about with other kids, but books were easy for him. "They can be like friends too, you know."

"Yeah," Davey said sadly. "I do know."

Blaine had a flash of an idea, and jumped to his feet before grabbing Davey's startled hand. "C'mere," he said, pulling him into the stacks and leading him through the maze of shelves to the Sci-Fi section. He ran his thumb over the shelves, along broken spines and tattered shelving tags until he found them, the books Paula had given him. He pulled Magic's Pawn out with his pointer finger and shoved it at Davey. "Read this."

Davey took the book reluctantly. "What's it about?"

"These people who guard this kingdom, and they all have these magic gifts. And not-horses who speak to them in their minds." He didn't want to tell Davey  _all_  about Vanyel, because he didn't want to scare him away. "And there's this boy, Vanyel, and he doesn't have friends and his family isn't the best. But he goes to live with his aunt, and then he finds a home  _and_  friends."

Davey looked at Blaine, and then back at the book. "He's a boy like us, then," he said softly.

Blaine shrugged. "I guess."

"How long are you gonna be here?" Davey was  _staring_  at Blaine, like he was trying to see inside his skull. Blaine didn't like it, but he didn't  _hate_  it either.

"All afternoon. You?"

Davey nodded. "Come read with me."

There was only the one chair in the corner where they'd been, and the children's room was full of screechy little kids and parents, but the teen section was empty and there were beanbag chairs there that were pretty comfortable. Blaine took Eragon, and he tried not to notice when Davey tucked the Anne McCaffrey book into his backpack and opened Magic's Pawn instead.

They read in silence for the afternoon, and Blaine was nearly halfway through his book, because he read really fast, when he heard a muffled  _thunk_  and turned to see Davey staring at him, the book on the floor.

"Wait," Davey said, color high on his cheeks. "Vanyel . . . he - and  _Tylendel_?"

"Shhhh," Blaine whispered. "You might want to hide that in your backpack or something. Your parents might not like you reading it."

"But - I don't - I've never  _read -_ "

"It's okay," Blaine said, nodding. "It's not  _bad_. Being like that, it can't be bad."

"Dude." Davey's lip was curling, and his face was the color of the upholstery on the couch. "It's  _totally_  bad. Don't you listen to  _anybody_? That's, like, the worst thing in the  _world_  to be." He scrambled to his feet and shook his head at the book on the floor, backing away. "Why'd you give me that book?"

"I- I th-thought you'd  _like_  it." Blaine blinked his eyes and tried not to cry, because he really  _had_  thought that Davey would like it. And he didn't know why, but his feelings were hurt. And he felt like a  _baby_. It was just a stupid book. Only, it  _wasn't_.

"I did like it," said Davey. His eyes dug into Blaine. "That's the worst  _part."_

Then he grabbed his bag and ran out of the teen section, not even stopping to check out the Anne McCaffrey book. The alarm went off, and Blaine saw several people stop to watch Davey storming through the front door, but he didn't pause. He was gone.

"It's all right," Paula called, and she walked over from the front desk, watching Blaine with worried eyes. The rest of the patrons went back to what they were doing, but Paula waited until Blaine came to her. "What happened, Blaine?" she asked in a low voice.

"Davey likes fantasy books too, so I showed him the book you gave me - the Heralds, you know? I liked it so much, I thought he would too." Blaine tried to make his voice quiet, but it was getting high-pitched and squeaky the way it did when he was upset.

"Ah," she said, biting her lip. "Blaine. That book - it was... pretty special, huh?"

Blaine nodded. "Y-yeah. It was like,  _everything_." He couldn't even explain it at all.

"All right." She put a hand on his shoulder and led him slowly back to the teen section, where the discarded book lay on the floor like an accusation. She waited for Blaine to pick it up. "He read some of it?"

"Y-yeah. And he stopped when he got to the part where... I told him that it couldn't be bad, Vanyel and Tylendel. I mean," he worried at his lip with his teeth, "it's not bad in the book. So.  _It's not bad, Paula_." He was pleading with her to tell him the truth. He was desperate to know it.

"No," she agreed, taking his hand and squeezing hard. "You're absolutely right. It's  _not bad."_

Blaine cast his eyes at the door. "But D-Davey, h-he said that it's pretty much the  _worst_  thing, because that's what the other kids say."

Her eyes were solemn. "It's more complicated than that. Some grownups, they think it's bad. And then they tell their kids it's bad, and they tell other kids. But not all grownups think that. Do you agree with everything your parents tell you?"

Blaine thought about the way his father was about Santana, and people who looked different, or who didn't go to their church. "N-no. My dad. I think he might be wrong about a  _lot_  of things."

"That's okay," she said softly. "You don't  _have_  to agree with everything he thinks. It's part of becoming your own person. That's one of the best parts about libraries." She pointed at the shelves of books, thousands of them. "Part of my job is to find books that have lots of different points of view, to show what people think or feel. And sometimes, those points of view will make people angry, or sad, or frustrated. And that's  _okay."_

"But Davey wasn't any of those things. He said- h-he said-" Blaine stopped, wanting to tell Paula everything, but not sure if he was betraying a confidence or not.

"What, lovey?" Paula knelt down and looked him in the eye.

"He s-said that he  _liked_  the book, and that  _that_  was the worst part." Blaine looked down at his sneakers and shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Oh," she said, looking surprised. She glanced at the door where Davey had ran away, and sighed. "Well. In  _that_  case, maybe you can do me a favor. Do you go to school with Davey?"

"No," he said. "But my friend Santana does."

"Mmmm. You think you can find him? I'd like to... suggest some other books he might enjoy." She thought for a moment, then tugged Blaine's hand, leading him back to the grown-up section of the library. Blaine still felt a little  _naughty,_  reading books from this section, because his mother had told him he wasn't allowed to do that until he was in middle school.  _But I'm a good reader,_  he thought, stubbornly, staring up at the tall stacks.  _I can read any book in this library._

Paula scanned the shelves and, after a moment's thought, pulled a book down. She handed it to Blaine.  _The Fire's Stone,_  by Tanya Huff. "He might be willing to read this one," she suggested. "Tell him..." She got down on her knee, so her eyes were even with Blaine's, and looked at him fiercely. "Tell him, no matter what the other boys say, there's  _nothing wrong_  with what he read in that book."

Blaine bit his lip and tried to meet her gaze. "I - I don't know if I can do that."

"Yes, you can," she insisted. "I know you can."

Blaine fought the urge to pull his hand away, to leave the library without the book. To forget what Paula had asked him to do. But he didn't like to disappoint grownups, and he  _really_  wanted to help Davey understand. He reached out and took the book. "Okay," he sighed. "I'll do it."

"Good," she said, ruffling his curls. "You're a good friend, Blaine."

* * *

It took him a week to find Davey.

Rather, it took him a week to find Davey  _alone_. He'd seen him once at the park on the edges of a basketball game, but Blaine had been with Santana and Brittany and couldn't get away. He'd passed him Sunday afternoon after church, when his dad had been called into work and Blaine had had to go to the store with his mom. But Saturday morning it was warm and Santana and Brittany had some science thing for Girl Scouts, and none of Blaine's school friends had wanted to play. So Blaine decided to take his bike out, because all week he'd been wanting to fly.

He peddled his usual route to the park, but it was empty except for two really little girls digging in the sandbox, one blonde and the other dark, watched over by a stern-looking woman. "Sarah," he heard the woman scold as he sped past. "Don't throw the sand!"

Blaine kept riding, into the slightly unfamiliar streets on the far side of the park. He was farther from home than he'd ever been on his bike, but it felt really good, just sun and birds and the wind whistling in his ears. He had just turned from Woodlawn onto Lakewood when he spotted him, legs flying in rollerblades and his limbs bulky with protective gear. Davey was three houses up, so Blaine stood on his pedals and leaned forward into the air. He  _had_  to catch up.

He was gulping for breath when he reached Davey, but he didn't stop. He just matched Davey's pace, catching his eye, trying to ask him a question without any words:  _want to fly?_

Davey looked surprised to see Blaine, but then he nodded in silent agreement. Davey flicked his eyes to the end of the cul de sac, where there was a vacant lot that was nothing but grass.

Blaine pedaled hard and fast and tried  _not_  to watch Davey out of the corner of his eye. Instead, he set his sights on the vacant lot. He barely slowed when he reached the curb, just lifted his handlebars slightly like Santana had taught him and then letting his back tire thump over and onto the sidewalk. He braked when he reached the grass, and turned just in time to hear Davey yelling "oh,  _shit_ " right before he caught his wheel on the curb and tumbled over and over on the pavement.

"Dude," he shouted when he stopped moving. "A little help." Blaine moved closer, listening to Davey muttering  _ohcrapohcrapohcrap_  under his breath.

"You don't look crooked," Blaine said. "I don't think you broke anything."

"Smartass," Davey retorted, gently moving his feet and hands. "Are you gonna  _help_ , rich boy, or are you just gonna stand there?"

"It's a good thing you had all your padding on. You didn't scrape too badly." Blaine helped Davey sit up, and he went back to his bike while Davey took off his helmet and knee and elbow pads. "It's also a good thing my mother freaks out about me getting hurt." He rummaged in the little zipper pouch that was velcroed under his bike seat and pulled out a tiny first aid kit. It didn't have a lot, just a few band-aids and some alcohol wipes, but Davey only had the one scrape on his shin that Blaine could see.

"Here," Blaine said, holding out two packets of wipes. "Clean your leg, and we can put a band-aid over the worst of it."

Davey eyed him sideways. "You're not going to help me?"

"I thought you were a  _Boy Scout_. Don't they teach you anything? That's not safe, touching blood. You do it yourself. I'll help with the bandage." Blaine watched while Davey tore one packet open. He held the wipe between his thumb and forefinger, and moved it tentatively towards the scrape in the middle of his shin.

"Dude.  _Please?"_ Davey looked at him, eyes wide and a little worried.

"Fine," Blaine said, stepping closer and then plopping down onto the cement. "It's only alcohol,  _dude_."

"B-but," Davey stuttered, "alcohol fucking  _stings_."

"Language," Blaine whispered automatically, used to correcting Santana all the time - though she  _never_  used the f-word. It made him a little faint to hear it from Davey. "Just- just  _breathe_ , okay?"

Blaine waited a moment before taking the wipe and swiping it over the scrape. Davey hissed and winced and tried to pull away, but Blaine just put a hand on his shoulder. "Done. Okay? You're not going to, like, faint or anything, are you? I mean, really. It's just alcohol."

"Give me the damn band-aid. I'm not a fucking baby," Davey growled.

Blaine handed the band-aid over. "Fine. Do it yourself if you want." He started back towards his bike, was reaching for his helmet when he heard the paper wrapper crinkling, and Davey was on his feet.

"Where you going?" Davey called to him.

"Home." Blaine wasn't sure what to do about Davey and his changing moods. He just knew he didn't feel like flying anymore.

"Wait. Don't." He turned back, because Davey sounded desperate. "I- I c-can't-  _Blaine!_  That  _book!"_

Blaine sighed. "What about it?"

Davey hesitated, then said, quickly, "I think I want to finish it."

Blaine shook his head. "I don't have it. But Paula, she gave me another one she thought you might like."

"Yeah?" Davey's eyes were wide with interest.

Blaine nodded. "Yeah." He turned and started rifling through his backpack. Eragon was heavy in the bottom, but he could feel the paperback just out of reach under his water bottle and granola bar. He couldn't get his whole hand on the book, so he dumped everything onto the grass.

"Here," he said, holding out The Fire's Stone. "Paula also gave me a message for you."

"Really?" Davey looked the book over carefully.

"Yeah. She said for me to tell you that there's nothing wrong with what you read in that book."

Davey didn't look at all convinced, but he sat back down on the grass. "How can she be so sure?"

"She's a grownup. And a  _librarian_. Librarians are super smart." Blaine shrugged. "I guess she knows what she's talking about. And she picks me great books, so."

Davey didn't smile, but he relaxed a little. "She choose great books for me, too."

Blaine hummed in affirmation. "Yeah. I think we can trust her, don't you?

"Maybe." Davey settled into the grass, cross-legged, as close to Blaine as he could get without touching him. He pointed at the fat book in the grass. "Did you finish Eragon yet?"

"I'm about three-quarters through."

"My mom buys books for Borders, and she gets them even before they get published. She brings home advance reader copies all the time." Dave sounded smug. "I read that last winter. It's pretty amazing - did you know the author is  _eleven?"_

Blaine felt a flood of relief.  _Oh. He wasn't lying, after all._ "Wow." He hesitated for a moment, then reached into the grass and held up his snacks. "Wanna share? I could tell you about the end of that Herald-Mage book. It wouldn't be exactly like reading it, but I think you'll like it anyway. And there are two more in the trilogy, and lots more after that."

Davey eyed the granola bar. "Is that chocolate chip?"

"With peanut butter," Blaine said, tearing the wrapper open and breaking the bar in half.

"Thanks," Davey said, taking his half and biting into it. "Man, I  _love_  peanut butter and chocolate chips."

"Me, too," Blaine said, uncapping his water. "Maybe-" He paused for a moment, thinking. "Maybe, the next time Marisol and I make cookies, I could bring you some."

"Cool," Davey said, and he  _finally_  smiled at Blaine.


	6. Fifth Grade

**Fifth Grade**

Blaine heard the little girl crying before he saw her. He wheeled through the dirt paths around the playground, searching for the source of the sound, and finally located her in the sandbox. Her black curls were tangled and her face was dirty, and the tears and snot were combining to make a kind of sticky paste that made stray hairs adhere to her cheeks. It made Blaine squirm to see her like that, snuffling and grungy, in the sandbox, but even worse to see her so sad.

He hopped off his bike and got down on his knee by the lip of the sandbox. "What's wrong?" he asked anxiously. She ignored him and went on crying. Blaine glanced around. "Did you lose your mother?"

The little girl shook her head and scrubbed her face with one bare arm. Blaine shuddered. "Okay, that's just gross. Come here - I have a napkin in my pocket." He opened his water bottle and poured some onto the napkin, then brushed her hair back from her sticky face as best as he could, using the wetness to clean off the sand and snot. "You sound sad."

"I miss my bwudder," she said, in a low, intense voice. "He's at soccer camp."

From down the road, Blaine could hear muffled cursing, and a woman's voice shouting, "Where in hell did you get to  _this_ time?"

"I wan away fwom home," the girl said matter-of-factly. "She doesn't know where I am."

"Oh." Blaine stood up, waving his arm. "She's over here," he called, as a furious dark-haired woman appeared from the direction of the swings.

"You're in  _big trouble,_  missy," she scolded the little girl, reaching for her arm, but the girl ducked under and went on digging in the dirt as though she did this every day.  _Maybe she did,_  Blaine thought, watching them in bemusement.

"I wanted to pway in the sandbox," she explained, rationally and calm as anything. "You said, we could pway today."

The woman crossed her arms in front of her chest and scowled. "I swear, I  _never_ should have let your brother go to camp," she said into the air before looking down at the girl. "I have to go to work. Time to go home. Timmy's supposed to be taking care of you."

"No!" The girl threw her shovel into the dirt and stomped her sneakered foot. "I wanna pway. Timmy is  _bowing._  You can't make me go home."

Blaine watched them, the way the little girl refused to give in.  _You might be right, kiddo_ , he thought, and tried not to smile.

Another woman and her daughter, this one blonde, approached from the parking lot. The woman sat on the bench, brushing off the sand before sitting down, while the little girl climbed into the other side of the sandbox and sat there, watching the drama unfold. Blaine bit his lip, uncertain how much more he should get involved. It was already seeming pretty complicated.

"She can stay with me for a little while, Ruth," said the woman on the bench. "We have about a half hour before Francie's hair appointment."

"All right," Ruth acknowledged, smiling gratefully at the woman before glaring at her daughter. "You're lucky Francie's mother has time to play." She stood, brushing off her knees. "I'll have Timmy come pick you up. Don't go _anywhere_  else, you understand?"

They all watched the woman named Ruth storm back down the path.

"Such a shame," Francie's mother said, shaking her head and lowering her voice so the girls wouldn't hear. "Her husband just up and left, and her with  _three_  kids." She nodded at the girl, who had picked up her shovel and joined Francie. "Sarah's the youngest, six like my Francie. The oldest is in high school. That middle boy, he's nothing but trouble. It's nice and quiet with him away at camp this summer."

Francie seemed content to play with her own pail and shovel, but she kept watching Sarah, who was determinedly filling up her sneaker with sand. Blaine watched the girls, and listened to the woman, and felt like all the times he'd spent with his parents and their friends at dinners and parties, the only kid in a sea of adults, was  _finally_  good for something. Because he was getting all the information he  _wanted_  without having to say a word.

He helped Francie build a respectable sand castle, held together with water from the drinking fountain, but before long, Francie's mother stood up and sighed. "We really need to go."

Blaine hesitated. "Um... I can stay with Sarah until her brother gets here."

"That's very kind of you -?"

"Blaine," he said, automatically holding out his hand. "Blaine Anderson." The woman shook it with a smile.

"Not Darren Anderson's boy?"

"Yes, Ma'am, he's my father." Blaine really didn't think he'd met this woman before, but he'd met more than his fair share of work and country club people, and he couldn't always remember them.

"My husband works with your father." She seemed to approve of this. Blaine wondered what she would say if he said  _I don't like my father very much,_  but since there was  _no_  chance of him saying it, he figured he'd never know. "Do you babysit, Blaine? I'm always looking for another sitter."

"Um." He looked doubtfully at little blonde Francie, hovering on the edge of the sandbox, waiting for her mother and watching Blaine with big eyes. "I never have, but I think I could, if you wanted me to."

"I might call you some time. I often just need a few hours to do grocery shopping or make dinner, and having someone for Francie to play with would be so helpful." She took Francie's hand and waved at Blaine, and Francie gave an identical miniature version of the wave. Sarah and Blaine both watched them go.

"I can thpit twelve feet," Sarah boasted.

"No way," Blaine said, grinning at her. "Let's see."

They marked the distance in the sandbox with Blaine's shoe, which he figured was a reasonable approximation of a foot - at least for a six year old - while Sarah demonstrated her spitting prowess. It was considerable, though she didn't quite make twelve inches. "I do better when my bwudder's here," she added. "He's my good luck chawm."

"Your brother Timmy?" Blaine asked, retying his shoe.

"No," she said, with a dismissive wave. "He's a dork. My bwudder Noah. We do  _everything_ together. Exthept - exthept he's at  _camp."_  She looked like she might cry again.

Blaine made the connection suddenly, the pieces of  _that middle boy is trouble_  and Santana talking about the bad boy in her elementary school class, and Davey saying  _Finn is too nice for Noah Puckerman_  clicking into place. "Is your brother Noah Puckerman?"

"Y-you k-know my bwudder?" Sarah's shuddery breathing paused, and she looked up at Blaine with wide eyes.

"No," Blaine said honestly. "I mean, not  _really._  I have friends who know him, though. Santana, and Brittany."  _And Davey_ , he thought, but they were only secret friends, and Blaine certainly wasn't going to trust a six year old with  _that_  secret.

"Sometimes I get to go with Noah when he helps Bwittany with her gawden," Sarah said. Then her face crumpled again and she started to cry, quiet and heartbreaking tiny sobs. Blaine cast around for something to give her.

"I could sing you a song," he suggested, and she didn't seem to mind this idea. He tried the solo he'd just been given in the Columbus Boy Choir:

 _Hushabye, don't you cry  
_ _Go to sleepy little baby  
_ _When you wake, you shall have  
_ _All the pretty little horses_

"I'm not a baby," Sarah said, the thumb in her mouth belying her words. She cuddled up real close to him and looked a little less haunted around the eyes.

"It's just part of the song," he explained, and went on:

 _Blacks and bays, dapples and grays  
_ _Coach and six white horses_

"You sing like a girl," she observed.

"That's the way I'm supposed to sing," he said. "My choir director taught me. When I'm a grown-up, I'll sound like a boy." He hoped he would, anyway.

Blaine had never expected his father to agree to let him join the Columbus Boy Choir. He'd asked him in a rare courageous moment at dinner one night. Of course, he hadn't explained the  _reason_  for wanting to join the choir; he didn't think his dad would approve of Blaine's unhealthy fascination with Julian Thompson. Joining the choir would mean he could see Julian  _every week_ , for the  _whole summer._  But not only had his dad said yes, but he had agreed to drive him to Columbus every week to attend the two hour rehearsals. Blaine had been ecstatic.

What he hadn't expected was how much he would like singing in the Boy Choir. He'd never done any other singing before, except at church, and he'd discovered he was actually  _good_  at it. He didn't even mind singing up high, like a girl, because that was the way  _all_  the boys sang in the choir - at least the trebles, like him. And his choir director had told him that was the way he was  _supposed_ to do it. That made him feel good, to know he was doing something right.

His dad had even said he would come to his first concert, and Blaine had been shocked because his dad never came to any of his things. Not horse shows, not school plays, not even the year he'd been a shepherd in the church Christmas pageant. He hoped his dad wouldn't think he sounded funny up there.

"I like to thing," Sarah said, taking his hand. "But I don't thing like  _that._  My daddy is a thinger."

"What does he like to thing - er, sing?" Blaine asked.

"Wock n' woll. I know one." She opened her mouth and in a five-year-old's approximation of in tune, began:

 _Song sung blue  
_ _Everybody knows one  
_ _Song sung blue  
_ _Every garden grows one_

 _Me and you are subject to the blues now and then  
_ _But when you take the blues and make a song  
_ _You sing them out again  
_ _Sing them out again_

Listening to Sarah sing about "the blueth" made him smile. He tugged her hand. "You like to swing?"

"Yeah," she said hopefully. "Will you push me really high?"

He couldn't push high enough to satisfy her, not even when he ran underneath and pushed with his whole body, but it was enough to make her shriek with pleasure. Blaine tried to teach her how to pump, but she couldn't figure it out and it just made her more frustrated, so in the end he just pushed from the ground while she did all the swinging. It was a lot more fun than he'd expected, helping Sarah have fun.

"I don't have a sister," he told her. "Or a brother."

"Noah said those are cawwed lonely childwen," said Sarah. "Are you a lonely chiwd?"

"Yes," said Blaine. "I am."

"So's Fwancie," Sarah told him, her face serious in the moment before she wrinkled up her nose. "Going to pway at her house is thtupid."

"Why?" Blaine asked, pushing Sarah higher still. "Doesn't she like swings and things? She liked the sandbox."

"She does, but her mom is always tewwing us to be quiet, and not to make a mess, and we never get to wisten to music." Sarah shook her head like a day without music was the end of the world. Blaine smiled a little, because he kind of understood how she felt. "She has to sweep duwing the day."

"Some people work at night," Blaine said. "Maybe she needs her sleep?"

"I guess." Sarah looked doubtful. She gathered up her tiny limbs and went flying off the swing onto the ground, landing in the dust, but she didn't seem to be harmed. She just stood up and brushed off the wood chips, inspecting a skinned hand with solemn interest. "My bwudder says sweep is for pussies."

"You shouldn't say that," he warned her. "You could get in trouble."

"For saying words?" Sarah looked completely flummoxed. "No way. I can say whatever I want."

This was so beyond Blaine's reality that he wasn't even sure what to say in response. Instead, he just shuffled his feet and glanced at his watch. He had a riding lesson at 4, and needed to get home, but Sarah's brother was nowhere. "I think we'd better go back to your house. Do you know where it is?"

"Duh. I  _got_  here by myself, didn't I?" She rolled her eyes at him, and Blaine couldn't help but smile at her.

"Great. Show me."

"You didn't say  _pwease_ ," she taunted him, and took off running to the other side of the park.

Blaine thought it was a good thing he had his bike, because Sarah was like lightning. When he caught up to her, she was half a block away from the park entrance, curls flying and legs pumping, but she skidded to a stop when she heard his tires crunch behind her.

"What took you so long? Noah would have caught me befowe I got out of the pawk," she teased, hands on her hips.

"My bike," he said. "I couldn't leave it -" He was interrupted by his cell phone in the pocket of his shorts. The only one who ever called him on it was his mother. He fished it out and answered.

"Hi, Mom." He tried not to sound tentative, the way he  _always_  did on the phone, but he  _hated_  the phone.

"Blaine, honey, where are you? Don't forget your lesson." His mother didn't sound frantic, just bored.

"I'm still at the park. There's a little girl who has nobody to watch her. I'm going to take her back to her house." Sarah was dancing a few dozen yards ahead of him, and he watched her anxiously as she darted across the street without looking both ways.

"Blaine? Are you  _babysitting?"_  His mother sounded confused now.

"Not really," he said. "But I kind of like it."

"I never- your father- well. Nevermind, honey. Just, be home before 3:30, okay?"

Blaine wasn't really thinking about whether his father would approve or not. He could only think,  _She doesn't have anybody. And that's not okay._

Sarah took him right to her porch and retrieved a key from underneath a gargoyle statue by the door. She unlocked it and put the key back right away, without being told. It kind of hurt Blaine's heart to think about a five year old little girl knowing where her spare key was kept, but Sarah didn't seem to think anything was odd about it.

The house was dark and nobody was home when they went inside, but Blaine saw a list of phone numbers written in careful, wobbly print on the fridge. The first person on the list was  _Carole Hudson,_  so Blaine called that one.

"Hello?" he heard a boy say.

"May I please speak to Carole Hudson?" he asked, as politely as he could.

"Just a sec." There was a pause, then he heard a woman's voice say, "This is Carole."

"Hi, Ma'am. I'm Blaine, and I was taking care of Sarah Puckerman, and her brother was supposed to pick her up at the park and didn't. And nobody's home, but I can't stay much longer." Blaine knew he was close to babbling, the way he always did when he was scared or nervous or uncertain. And there was a  _lot_  uncertain about Sarah and her empty house.

"You're sure nobody is home?" Carole's voice was gentle, calming, and Blaine settled down enough that his heart wasn't pounding. He stopped and listened carefully for the telltale sounds of a person occupying space, but there was nothing. The house  _felt_  empty because it  _was_  empty.

"I'm sure, Ma'am. The door was locked, the lights were off. And it just- it  _feels_ empty, you know?" Blaine waved his hand around even though Carole wasn't there to see him.

"OK. Blaine, right?"

"Yes."

"Good. Blaine, can you stay there with Sarah for five more minutes? I live close, I'll be right over, okay?" Blaine could tell that Carole was talking in that  _stay calm_  kind of voice adults used around kids when something scary was happening; it was the same way Mr. Fletcher had talked to Blaine's class last year after Carrie Watson accidentally ate something with peanuts in it and had to go to the hospital in an ambulance.

"Okay." Blaine leaned against the fridge and watched Sarah drag a red plastic footstool over to the counter. She climbed up on it and reached to the back of the counter for a cookie jar, pulling out a handful of chocolate chip cookies. She held one out to Blaine, but he shook his head.

"Tell Sarah that she'll stay at my house tonight. I'll help her pack a bag when I get there." Blaine heard the beep of a car unlocking. "See you in a few minutes. And Blaine?"

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Thank you."

* * *

Blaine's dad waited through nearly the entire 45 minute drive to Columbus before saying, "I got a phone call from Andrea Preston yesterday." He took his eyes off the road long enough to give Blaine a stern glance. "She asked if you might be available for  _babysitting._ "

Blaine had to think for a moment. "Oh, right. The woman from the park. Francie's mom."

"Yes, that's right. Blaine, what ever possessed you to give her the idea that you might be able to do such a thing?" He sounded as though Blaine was completely insane to have considered it.

"What's wrong with babysitting? Lots of g- um-  _kids_  at school do it. It might be fun." Blaine was glad that he caught himself before saying it was something  _girls_  did, but he didn't think it was going to matter; he was pretty sure his dad knew that already.

"Anderson men don't babysit," said his father, but Blaine thought his voice was a little on the tired side. It gave him courage.

"I'd like to try it. Just for the summer. That way, it won't interfere with school." Blaine watched his father clench and unclench his hands around the steering wheel, but he didn't say anything so Blaine pushed on. "It would be a way to keep busy, since I don't have swim lessons any more. And all my friends have camp, so there's nobody to play with."

His dad sighed, not quite giving in, but Blaine could tell he was almost there. He let himself keep talking.

"Dad..." He touched his dad's hand. "That little girl, Sarah. She doesn't have  _anybody._  Her brother's at camp and her other brother disappeared and her father left and her mother always works. She's really lonely." He bit his lip. "I don't want Francie to be alone, like that."

His dad was quiet. He actually seemed to be thinking about what Blaine had said.

"Just for the summer," he said. "And we'll see, after that."

"Cool," Blaine said, and let the matter sit between them for a few miles. When his heart stopped pounding, he sent out a tentative word.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Blaine?"

"Maybe- I mean. I'll be getting paid. To babysit. Do you think- would you help me get a bank account? Like, for savings?" Blaine crossed his fingers under his thigh, hoping that he'd said the right thing for once.

When his dad barely smiled, he knew he had.

"I think that's a very responsible idea, Blaine. Of course."

* * *

Blaine shifted nervously from foot to foot on the Preston's doorstep. When Francie appeared at the door, she reached gravely for his hand. She almost never smiled, except when her mom told her to, but Blaine knew her well enough by now to tell when she was happy.

"Sarah will meet us there," he said, before she could ask. Sarah's brother was coming home in three days, and she could talk about nothing else. Every other sentence was  _Noah says_  and  _Noah thinks_ and  _When Noah cooks that, he makes it with tarragon._ Blaine hadn't mentioned the fact that this meant he wouldn't be babysitting anymore. He was sad about this in a way he hadn't expected.

 _She trusts me,_  he thought, holding Francie's hand as they crossed the street.  _And I guess I love her. Funny how you can fall in love with a kid like that._

The library storytime was crowded this week. Sarah had already saved them a spot on one of the larger carpet squares. They all squashed in together, Blaine crossing his legs and Sarah and Francie climbing on each knee. The rest of the parents there were all mommies, and they gave him identical admiring glances. He had to tell new mommies each week  _no_ , he was sorry, but he wasn't allowed to babysit any more kids.

That didn't stop them from handing him slips of paper with phone numbers and whispered instructions to  _call if that changes_. He filed them all in two envelopes in his desk. One read  _yes_ , for the moms who sat and listened to the stories and helped their kids find books, and spoke to them like people instead of things. The other said  _never_. Those moms were the ones with crazy kids, or kids they looked at like they were as much of an accessory as a purse or a pair of shoes. Blaine wasn't anywhere near an experienced babysitter, but he could tell that  _those_  moms were more trouble than they were worth.

Sarah had found a book she really liked one week, and they went to see if it was on the shelf. More often than not, it was. It was called  _King & King._ Blaine felt a little strange the first time he read it out loud to Sarah. He didn't want anybody to accuse him of teaching her something inappropriate. But it had been Sarah's choice, and she could be a little bossy sometimes, so he just went along with it.

"On the tallest mountain above town," he began, holding the book out so they could both see the brightly colored illustrations. When the grouchy queen instructed her son, the prince, to find a princess to marry, his comment was, "I must say, though, I've never cared much for princesses." No matter how many princesses she brought to meet him, he couldn't find one he liked.

"I like the princess from Greenland," Francie said, pointing, as she did most weeks. "She gets to fall in love with the prince's page."

"I don't like any of the pwincetheth," Sarah announced loudly. "They're all dumb."

In the end of the story, the prince meets and falls in love with another prince and plan their wedding, and are declared King and King. "But that couldn't really happen," said Francie.

Sarah looked perplexed. "Why not?"

"My daddy says girls marry boys and boys marry girls." She sounded very wise, but Sarah shook her head.

"No way," she said. "You can mawwy anybody you want as long as you love them." She gazed at Blaine expectantly. "Right?"

"Um," said Blaine. He glanced around desperately, but nobody was paying attention to them. "I don't actually know. But I - I know there's nothing  _wrong_  with that."

Sarah nodded sagely. "Good," she said, sticking her tongue out at Francie. "I knew I was wight."


	7. Sixth Grade

**Sixth Grade**

"Coach Robbins is  _such_  a  _bitch_ ," Santana said, bursting through the kitchen door and dropping her gym bag on the chair next to Blaine. He looked up from his math to see her face set, her mouth in a hard line. She hadn't bothered to change after practice, and her sweatshirt was unzipped over her jeans and a black leotard with chalky handprints all over it.

"Attractive," he teased, and she slapped the table with her hands, leaving faint chalky marks  _there_ , too.

"She won't let me do floor in the meet next week because I only just got my handspring, and Katie Allen has had hers for two weeks already, but Katie Allen can't dance for  _shit."_

Blaine set his pencil down and looked at her. "You're a great dancer, 'Tana. Maybe Coach will let you do floor in two weeks?"

"In two weeks, our meet is against Lima North Middle. Against  _Britt_. There's no  _point_ , because Britt is the  _best_. And to make it all worse, I have to do fucking  _beam_  this week." She was darting around the kitchen, waving her arms like she did whenever she got really worked up about anything.

Blaine pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Beam scares you," he said, matter-of-factly, and Santana shot him a venomous look.

"Beam is  _stupid_. I'd probably be able to compete in 5A if I didn't keep falling. Beam is my  _worst_  event."

"You don't like to fly." Blaine thought about Santana and the swings, and the merry-go-round, and all the things that made her nauseous.

"What does the beam have to do with flying?" Santana shoved her bag off the chair with her hip and settled in. Blaine pushed the plate of cookies towards her, and she snagged one, along with his half empty glass of milk.

"Same concept," he shrugged. "You don't feel like yourself on the beam because you're not on solid ground. Or something like that."

"Whatever," she waved the half-eaten cookie at him. "I don't care  _why_  I can't stay on the fucker, I just need to know how to fix it."

"Think of it like a platform. Like, you have all this space on either side of you. Solid ground. And whatever you do, don't look down." It made sense in his head, but he knew that Santana didn't see things the way he did.

"You wouldn't make it sound so easy if you'd ever been  _on_  a beam." She downed the rest of his milk and reached for another cookie.

"Don't eat them all," he cautioned. "I need some of them."

"My mom made them. Why do you need any?"

" _I_ made them," he corrected, "and they're for... somebody. At the library." He didn't want to tell Santana about Dave. He knew he  _could_  have, becasue even if she didn't understand, she would still be his friend. But the way he and Dave were, sharing books the way they did, it was kind of private. And anyway, they were for Paula, too, because she always worked on the Saturday when they met at the library to read. She let them bring cookies into the teen section as long as they didn't leave a mess.

The book she'd given him this month was different from any of the others she'd recommended before. It was called Totally Joe, and it was another brand-new book. This one was written by an author Blaine had read when he was in second grade, who wrote stories about talking cats and dogs and vampire rabbits that had made Blaine crack up. But this book wasn't funny, at least not in the same way. It was just a story about a regular boy in seventh grade. Blaine looked at Paula strangely when she handed it to him.

"It looks kind of boring," he said doubtfully. She smiled.

"Give it a try," she encouraged him. "If you hate it after two chapters, you can put it down."

But Blaine hadn't put it down. He'd finished the book under his covers at two in the morning, reading by flashlight and desperately hoping his mother wouldn't find him. This week he was planning to pass it on to Dave.

Because the boy in the book, the  _regular boy_ , liked other boys. The same way Blaine was thinking  _he_ liked other boys. The same way he thought that maybe  _Dave_  liked other boys. In the book, Joe called himself gay, but that scared Blaine a little bit because it seemed like such a grown-up thing, and Blaine didn't feel grown up at all.

"Who at the library?" Santana leaned closer in curiosity, and Blaine leaned back a little bit. Since middle school started, Santana liked to be a part of  _everyone's_ business.

"Just the librarian, Paula. She gives me all these really good books." Blaine held his breath and waited for Santana to call him out on his lie, but she didn't.

Instead, she laughed at him. "You are  _such_  a dork."

He took his box of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies and his library books and wrapped them carefully in Davey's -  _Dave's_  - old yellow shirt, and put them in his backpack. It was a shorter ride than it had used to be, from here to the library, now that he'd grown a few more inches. He was almost as tall as his mother, now. His legs were longer and could push the pedals harder, and he'd really  _fly_ across town.

Dave met him in the teen section on their usual couch, facing the window so they could read and look at the garden at the same time. "Took you freaking  _forever_ ,"he complained, smiling widely. He'd gotten braces on last month, and they still caught Blaine by surprise, when he saw them on Dave's teeth. His smile was brilliant, though, and Blaine looked forward to seeing it every third Saturday.

Paula always gave them a half hour or so to catch up and read for a little while before she sidled up to them with a new stack of books. Blaine opened up the box of cookies for her to take one. "I have another new book for you," she said to him. "It got fantastic reviews, and I loved it."

Dave bit down on a cookie, but his face darkened when he saw the cover of the book. "Boy Meets Boy?" he grumbled. "Jeez. It's like they're  _trying_  to get us beat up or something."

"I have a book jacket you could put over it if you want," Paula offered, but Dave just sighed.

"No, no... it's okay. I just have to make sure I only read it where nobody can see." He didn't look at Blaine when he said it, but Blaine could tell he was embarrassed. Blaine knew it was easier to feel safe when nobody was watching.

"You can have it first, if you want," Blaine said to Dave, holding out the box of cookies.

Dave shook his head. "No. You first. I have a book report next week for English. I don't know if I'll get to read anything or not." He took a bite of cookie and mumbled around it. "I hate my stupid English teacher. She never lets us read anything good."

"Mine's okay," Blaine said, flipping the book open and skimming the first page. It looked really good, one he thought he might like to read, like Totally Joe, under his covers with a flashlight because it was so good, so he tucked it at the bottom of his pile and slid Totally Joe out from the folds of the shirt. "Here. Read this after you finish your book report. Like a reward or something."

"Thanks," Dave said, taking the book and looking it over. "And you only like your teacher because you're a  _dork_."

"Says the boy at the library  _reading_  on a Saturday. Whatever." Blaine poked at his pile of books, trying to decide what to start first. "How's school, other than book reports?"

Dave groaned. "Dumb health class."

Blaine nodded understanding. "I have mine in the spring. What did you have to do?"

Dave dropped his voice to a whisper. "We have to take freaking  _sex ed,_  and they made us split up with the boys in one class and the girls in the other. It was such a freaking  _joke._  All they did was talk about wet dreams and growing hair and stupid things everybody knew anyway." He scowled at his cookie. "They didn't say anything  _important."_

Blaine didn't know what a wet dream was, but he didn't want to look stupid in front of Dave, so he just nodded. "Important?"

"You know." Dave stretched his legs out a little longer and propped them on the windowsill, squashing down lower on the couch, like he was trying to disappear. "Stuff. About... you know. About guys."

Blaine couldn't imagine being in a room full of other boys and  _wanting_  to talk about  _that._  He was pretty sure he would die if he had to endure it. Dave turned a page in his book and took a deep breath.

"I think..."

Blaine waited. He wanted to hand Dave a cookie or do something to make whatever he was going to say easier, but he didn't think anything would help. So he just sat there, trying to be as still as possible. But Dave didn't say anything else. They kept reading for a few minutes.

"Dave?" Blaine said. He could see the reflection of himself and Dave in the window, across from them, their knees and feet and faces looking like people he didn't even know. Like strangers. Like they could be anybody.

"Mmm," Dave replied vaguely, as though he were lost in his book, but Blaine could see he wasn't really reading.

"There's a boy I like," he said. "Like, the way Vanyel liked Tylendel."

It was Dave's turn to go still. He put his book down.

"Really?" he said. He sounded funny.

"Yeah," Blaine said. He waited for Dave to get up and leave, but he didn't. After a few minutes Dave picked up his book again.

"I think I get that," he said.

Blaine wiggled his feet in his sneakers. The feet in the window wiggled, too. "His name's Julian," he said, and then Dave  _did_  go kind of tense. He sat up and shoved his book into his backpack.

"I should probably go," he said. Blaine's stomach dropped.

"You think I'm weird," he said, sounding miserable even to himself. Dave stared at him.

"No way, man. Not weird. Just-" Dave paused and worried at his lip with his teeth. "Maybe he doesn't like you back."

"Maybe," Blaine agreed. "I kind of figured he wouldn't. But it doesn't stop me from liking him."

Dave nodded and looked at his hands. "I get that, too," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Why?" Blaine asked, curious. "Is there someone you like?"

Dave nodded, his ears turning light pink. "You wouldn't know him," Dave sputtered before Blaine could ask anything else.

"OK." Blaine let the conversation stop, went back to his book, but he couldn't help feeling Dave's eyes on him even though he pretended to ignore it.

"Blaine?" Dave's voice was shaky.

"Yeah?" Blaine kept his eyes on his book, even though he hadn't read a word in at least five minutes.

"We're in  _sixth grade_. Are you, like,  _sure_? I mean, that you, you know.  _Boys?"_ Dave whispered his question and then glanced around to make sure nobody had overheard them.

Blaine thought about the way he'd always felt so different from the other boys in school, and about Santana somehow knowing, and that elusive Kurt boy she always talked about.  _Blaine's not the only one_ , she'd said that day in the kitchen. "I'm sure," he said, nodding. "I think it makes sense, for me."

"I'm not sure what makes sense," Dave said, shifting to hide even more in the couch.

"We're twelve," Blaine said, thinking of something his mother told him all the time. "I think it's our job to be not sure." It was the only comfort he knew how to give.

They sat together for another twenty minutes, barely looking at their books, but making a big dent in the box of cookies. Blaine appreciated Dave's warm arm next to him, and the way he didn't need to say anything else for it to be okay, what they'd just talked about.

"I'm glad you didn't leave," he said to Dave when it was time for Dave's mom to pick him up. "I mean - I'm just glad you didn't."

Paula caught them on their way out the door. "I had one more book to give to you," she said, handing each of them a copy. It wasn't a fiction book this time. It had cartoon pictures of smiling kids on the front cover, and sported the very embarrassing title It's Perfectly Normal. "I wanted each of you to have one. I know it's not easy to ask questions, sometimes, but I'm always willing to answer them if you have any, and I'm a good listener."

Blaine dug out the remaining peanut butter chocolate chip cookies and passed them to her solemnly. "Fair trade," he said. "Maybe not as nutritious, though."

Dave gave Blaine a half-wave and headed out the door, tucking the book into his backpack. "See you next month," he said.

"Bye," Blaine said, but the doors were already closing behind Dave. He watched, waited until Dave was closed into his mother's car before turning to Paula and wrapping his arms around her. "Thank you," he whispered into her sweater. "I think this is going to be easier to read than to listen to it in health class."

"You're welcome, lovey," she said back to him. "Haven't had your class yet, huh?"

"No," Blaine said, pulling away and wrinkling his nose to keep his glasses from sliding any further. "Dave has, though. It sounded a little weird."

"It can be," Paula told him. "But it's also important. So pay attention, and if you have any questions, write them down and bring them to me, okay?"

"Okay," Blaine nodded. He started gathering his things, stuffing the books he wanted to hide into the bottom of his backpack and piling the others on top. When he stood up, Paula was smiling at him.

"My friend Santana, she thinks I have a crush on you or something," he said. "Because I told her the cookies were for you."

"It's nice of you to share them with me," Paula said.

"I don't have a crush on you," Blaine whispered, lowering his voice so the lady shelving books didn't hear. "But there is someone I like."

"Hmm," Paula mused. "Someone from school?"

Blaine nodded. "Yeah. H- h- um. H-his n-name is J-Julian."

Paula looked like she wanted to cry, but she hugged him instead. "You're a brave boy, Blaine. Thank you for trusting me."

Blaine thought that what he'd just said was supposed to feel like a really big deal, but he just felt kind of warm everywhere, like he was alive for the first time. He felt  _terrific._

* * *

Blaine could see someone sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs in the backyard when he wheeled his bike into the garage, so he went out there instead of into the house.

"You have any cookies left," Santana eyed his backpack where he dropped it in the grass, "or did your library lady eat them all?"

"Nope. We ate them while we were reading." He nudged at her leg, and she scooted over. The chairs were pretty big, and he and Santana were both still pretty small, and they could barely squeeze together in one.

"That's okay. I have salty caramels." She dug in her pocket and brought out a bag, and handed it to Blaine. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Who's  _we?"_

"Just D- um. Some of the other kids who read there. Paula lets us have snacks in the teen section if we don't make a mess." He took a caramel and felt himself blush hotly, ashamed at having almost given his friendship with Dave away.

"What did she give you this week? Since you  _love_  her so much." Santana leered at him, poking him under his arm. It made him laugh, but he felt uneasy at the idea of sharing any of Paula's choices with Santana. She was his oldest and best friend, but sometimes she could be a little harsh, and Paula's books were all so much a part of his heart, it was almost as though they lived inside there. If Santana made fun of any of those books, he wasn't sure what he would do.

"A couple of things," he said, pulling out the easy ones first. "The Book Thief," he said, handing her the thick paperback. "The Diamond in the Window." That one got a frown from Santana, but Blaine didn't let her talk. "I know, you don't like fantasy. But you might like  _this_  one," he said, handing over another thick paperback. "Uglies. Paula said it's different. You can try it, if you want, because I have something else I want to read first."

Santana flipped the book over and read the back, then turned to the first page. After a minute, she looked at Blaine. "Maybe. How much do I have to read before I decide I don't like it?"

"Two chapters," Blaine said. "You won't hurt my feelings if you don't like it. I promise."

"Okay," she nodded, setting the book on the arm of the chair. "What's your something else? I _know_  you hide stuff in that backpack, y'know."

"Yeah," Blaine muttered. "Um. I-" He picked up Boy Meets Boy and hesitated a moment before pulling it out. "This," he said, sliding the book over to her. "You can't tell anyone, 'Tana. But I- I-  _like boys_."

Santana looked from the book back up at Blaine and smiled slowly. "Finally! I've been waiting for you to figure it out for  _years_  already."

Blaine felt like he'd been punched. "Oh."

"Don't feel bad, Blaine. I won't tell anybody. But seriously - you thought nobody would figure it out?" She shook her head in amazement. " _My Little Ponies_ , Blaine. Really?"

Blaine dropped his head against the back of the chair and pointedly changed the subject. "What did you do today?"

Santana rested her head against his shoulder. "Britt and I hung out with Noah. He's pretty bummed because Hudson broke his wrist, and can't skateboard or anything for like, six weeks. Noah even put away  _his_  skateboard and said he wouldn't do anything with it until Finn could skate again."

"Wow," Blaine said, taking another caramel. "They  _really_  must be best friends. I can't imagine giving something up because somebody else couldn't do it."

"What about choir?" Santana poked at him with her foot. "Would you stay in if I quit?"

"But you're not  _going_  to quit, so this is a stupid conversation." At least Blaine  _hoped_  she wasn't going to quit. He hoped his father wasn't going to try to make  _him_  quit, either.

"Not this year. But if I get onto cheer next year, I might  _have_  to." Blaine knew that Santana wanted desperately to be a cheerleader, to be  _popular_ , but he also couldn't imagine giving up something he loved. Like reading. He'd never stop doing that even if nobody else ever read another book.

"I think- I think I'd  _stay_ ," he said, and she didn't seem surprised by that at all. Sometimes it still felt like they could read each others minds, but more and more often these days, Blaine felt like Santana was becoming somebody he didn't recognize.

He wondered if she saw the same thing in him.

"I know you would," she said, patting his hand. "It's okay. We don't have to do  _everything_  together any more. I mean," she brushed a nonexistant speck off her jeans, "we probably won't go to high school together anyway, and you'll have all kinds of new friends and I'll be back with Britt and Kurt and Noah."

"Is that what you want? To be with them?" The words were sharp in Blaine's mouth.

"No. It's just- that's how it's going to be, someday." Santana sounded sad. "We don't live in the same world, Blaine. And I think we both need to accept the fact that we're not always going to be able to be like this." She waved her hand over them, holding each other up in the single chair, sharing salty caramels.

"I'm not ready to give it up yet," he said, squeezing her hand. "Just- um. Promise me that you'll stay in choir, even if you make cheerleading? Because you're really good, 'Tana. And I like singing with you."

"Fine," she huffed into the air. "And don't tell anyone I said this, but I like singing with you, too. Even though you're a dork."


	8. Seventh Grade

**Seventh Grade**

Blaine tried to make himself as small as possible, in hopes that the chilly silence between his parents would just sort of pass over him instead of pulling him under like it sometimes did. He was being his best self, because he'd known as soon as his dad had slammed the front door closed just as Blaine was finishing his pre-algebra homework that it was going to be  _one of those nights_.

So he'd tucked all his school books into his backpack and taken it all the way up to his room instead of just leaving it at the foot of the stairs like he usually did. He'd wiped the table down and set it for dinner, and then he'd even helped his mom out by putting the lasagna that Marisol had prepped that morning into the oven before going up to his room to finish his homework.

_Stay out of sight_ , his instincts told him, even though it hardly mattered when his parents fought, because he was never more invisible than he was when they were yelling at each other.

Blaine usually loved Marisol's lasagna, but it sat like a lump in his stomach after only a few bites. He pushed it around his plate, willing  _one_  of his parents to notice that he wasn't eating, only they didn't. They just stared at each other over their wine glasses, and the room got colder and colder until Blaine stood sharply, pushing his chair away from the table with a lurch.

"May I please be excused from the table?" He looked pleadingly at his mother, and as soon as she nodded minutely he was gone, carefully rinsing his plate and putting it in the dishwasher before escaping up the stairs.

He wasn't even to his room before they started.

_You can't keep this up,_  his mother said, the way she did every time.  _You think you're being so careful, but you're not going to be able to keep it a secret forever._

_It's my damn life_ , his father roared.  _I'm doing the best I can_.

_It's my life, too, **and**  Blaine's. What are you going to tell him?_

It was the same, all the time. Blaine knew they were still fighting by their heavy footsteps and the weighted movement of plates and glasses and doors, but their voices would go harshly hushed to where he couldn't hear, and he would have to wait until the usual slamming of the front door and the squeal of his dad's tires before he could relax again.

But tonight it was just whispers of motion through the house, a lot longer than Blaine was used to, and it was making him nervous and maybe a little scared. He hated that his parents fought so much, but the predictable give and take of it gave him something to focus on.

Unpredictable was something Blaine didn't like. He thought about turning his music up, so that he could sing and dance and pretend that everything was normal, but when he tried to get up he found that he was frozen on his bed, like it was a life raft or something.

He startled in the silence when his phone started dancing across his nightstand and bleating Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

"Tana." He whispered because he wasn't sure of his voice.

"Blainers. You're so much better at school than I am. I need help with my Social Studies project." She just dove right into whatever was on her mind, and sometimes it made Blaine crazy.

"I can't- um. Not right now." He tucked his phone against his shoulder and wrapped his arms around his knees.  _Smaller_. He needed to be  _smaller_  to feel better.

"What's wrong?" Her tone shifted in a heartbeat, into the caring and kind Santana that Blaine knew most people didn't see. He didn't see her too often anymore, either, really, and that made him sad too.

"Fight," he said, the only thing he could get out.

"Do you want me to come over? Because I can totally ditch Britt."

_No_ , Blaine's mind screamed.  _Leave me alone_. "Yes," he said. "Please."

"I'll be there in half an hour. Is your window unlocked?" Blaine wasn't sure how, but Santana could scale the tree outside of his window like she was a squirrel. She seemed to have something against doors, so he usually left his window unlocked so she could get in whenever she wanted.

"Yeah," he replied. "Helmet," he told her, because sometimes when she was rushing, she'd leave her helmet behind.

"Yes,  _mom_ ," she teased. "I'm hanging up now. I'll be there soon."

"Okay," he whispered into the open air. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself and waited.

* * *

Santana could see Blaine, curled into a ball on his bed, through the glass as she reached the last branch before she tucked her legs and pushed to open the window before tumbling inside with a thud.

"There are definite advantages to these French door style windows," she said, dusting off her knees. "You're never allowed to replace them. Got that?"

"Whatever," Blaine said, his voice flat.

She padded over to Blaine across the thick carpet and paused before him, hands on her hips. "All right, Blainers, come on." She held out one hand, face up, waiting expectantly.

Blaine sighed, and heaved himself to his feet, taking her hand once he was upright.

She tugged his hand and towed him across the room to the game table beside his bureau. "Grab one of those chairs. No, the one with the arms. Put it over there. Not too close. That's right." She dragged the other chair with arms to the other side, judging the placement with a critical eye. "Hmmm. Okay."

"What are we  _doing_?" Blaine whined, sometimes, when he was freaking out about things, and she  _really couldn't_  deal with that shit tonight.

"Just watch, Backstreet," she told him with a grin. "This'll make it better. Trust me."

With one sweep of her arm, she stripped the heavy comforter off his bed to reveal the thermal blanket underneath. She extracted its neat tucks from under his mattress and wadded it up in her arm, and finally flicked it out flat and over her framework of chairs, nodding definitively. "It's a start. Come on, get under here."

"You're not going to make me feel you up or anything, are you? Because really? Boobs are  _gross_."

She huddled under the skeleton blanket fort, her arms around her knees, and she smiled. "See? You made a joke. That was good." She poked him in the ribs in exactly the spot that always made him snort with laughter. "Anyway, boobs are  _awesome._  Don't knock them till you've tried them."

Blaine twisted up his face and shook his head. "No way," he said with a light smile. "I don't think you could even  _pay_  me, so don't go getting any ideas." He tucked himself under the blanket next to her, and then peered at her quizzically.

"Wait," he wondered. "How do  _you_  know that boobs are awesome? Because the first and last time you mentioned them to me, it was all  _the boys keep snapping my bra strap_  and  _they're just in the way_."

She felt her cheeks heat, and tossed her hair out of her face. "Not  _my_  boobs, Anderson.  _Britt's_  boobs. She's totally a C cup now. She taught me this amazing dance routine to an old-school Prince song. I'll tell you, Blaine, dancing with Britt isn't anything like dancing with the rest of the seventh grade  _losers_  who keep wanting to grope me." She shrugged. "She's... really talented, okay?"

"You- she let you-" Blaine stammered, and his face went red. "You  _touched_  her  _boobs_?" He shivered like there was a spider crawling up his back. "Yuck."

She rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand. "Here." She pressed it to her chest. "Get over it."

Blaine startled, but she didn't let him pull away. Instead she leaned in and kissed him, the way Britt had taught her. Gentle, with a really little bit of tongue because  _that_  felt good.

She'd expected Blaine to freak out, to push her away or something, but he didn't. She knew he'd never even kissed a boy before, but he was with things enough to kiss her back. He wasn't as good as Britt, but Santana hadn't kissed a boy yet who was as good as Britt.

_She_  got startled, though, when Blaine kind of  _moved_ , like he didn't realize she was a girl or something. Like maybe he wanted her to do  _more_  than kiss, and she couldn't do that because he was  _gay._

"Wait," she said, pulling away. "Hold on, cowboy."

Blaine tried to follow her, his eyes flickering open and closed. "What? Why did you  _stop_ ," he whined.

"Because I'm not who you want," she said firmly. "Making out is fun and all, but you're my friend, and you're totally not into girls. So no more."

"Then why did you even do it?" He sounded confused.

She shrugged. "Because you'd never been kissed. And now you have. And now that we've done that, we can do  _this_." She crawled out from under the fort, grabbing the flashlight Blaine kept on his nightstand and the battered copy of  Charlotte's Web from his bookcase. When she had tucked herself back under the blanket, she folded Blaine into the curve of her arm and opened the book.

"Will you read to me until they're done?" He asked, resting his head on her shoulder.

"How will I know that?" Santana didn't understand Blaine's parents at  _all_. When her parents fought, the whole neighborhood used to know, but Blaine's house was silent, like always.

"You'll know," he nodded against her. "It won't be so cold anymore."

But Santana read and read, halfway through the book, and the house never warmed up.


	9. Eighth Grade

**Eighth Grade**

Santana grabbed Blaine's arm in the middle of the hallway and dragged him bodily across to the doorway to the gym. "What -?" he protested, straightening his shirt.

Her eyes were fierce and accusing, and she pointed at him with one finger, red-painted nail glistening. "It was your idea, trying out for a solo. So now you need to do it with me, because there's no way in hell I'm singing  _Pie Jesu_  without you."

"I can't sing a solo," he whispered, feeling the blood drain from his face. "Not in front of... everybody."

"Oh, give me a break, Backstreet," she snapped. "You sing all the time with that stupid boy choir. You had a solo with  _them._  What's the big deal?"

"That's different," he sniffed. "That's singing for people who won't laugh at me. But I- I  _c-can't_  sing Pie Jesu  _at school!_  Everyone will tease me for singing like a girl."

"Probably," she agreed. "So what? You  _do_  sound like a girl. And you're fucking  _awesome."_

"But it's  _your_  solo, 'Tana. It wouldn't be right, to share it."

"No, it's a stupid duet. And if you don't do it with me, they're going to make that awful Rachel Berry sing it with me, just because she's such a diva. She can't hit those high notes at all. You have to save me, Blaine."

Blaine shivered a little. He didn't like Rachel much either, because she was really bossy, and not in the teasing way Santana was. Rachel was just plain old bossy in a sometimes mean way, and Blaine knew from Boy Choir that it wasn't right to get parts just because you  _thought_  you were the best. He also knew that he could sing better than Rachel.

"Okay," he sighed. "But you're going to need to be my protection in case any of these dumb kids decided to kick my ass."

Santana hooked her arm through his and started steering him towards the choir room. "We need to tell Ms. Danforth  _now_  before she says anything to Rachel. Otherwise, I think maybe we'll both end up dead."

Ms. Danforth was a little startled by Blaine's stammering admission to wanting to audition for first soprano in  _Pie Jesu_. "That's a... high part, Blaine," she said, giving him a calculating look.

"He can totally sing it," Santana assured her. "Come on, we'll do it for you right now."

Blaine shot her a murderous glance, but straightened his shoulders and took a deep, relaxing breath, as he'd been taught, to prepare himself as Ms. Danforth played the opening bars. The shock on her face as he sang the first line was almost worth all the trouble. Blaine just closed his eyes to Santana's smug expression and Ms. Danforth's disbelief and let the notes pour out of his mouth, liquid and serene.

_Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu  
_ _Qui tollis peccata mundi  
_ _Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem_

Santana came in with the response, and they joined in harmonious thirds, Blaine on the first soprano part and Santana singing the mezzo.

_Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu  
_ _Qui tollis peccata mundi  
_ _Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem_

Her own young voice was still girlish enough to hit the high F without any trouble, but Blaine guessed she'd be an alto by the time her voice was done changing. He wondered, with a sinking heart, what was going to happen to his own voice. Sometimes puberty was the kiss of death for boy sopranos. He'd just have to wait and see.

"Well, Blaine," said Ms. Danforth, smiling broadly, "Santana wasn't kidding. You nailed it. You two going to sing it on our fall program?"

"Yes," he said, feeling a little shy because he'd never really put himself out there in choir at school before. It was just something he did for fun, but he liked the way Ms. Danforth's praise made him feel, like he'd done something special. Like  _he_  was special.

As they gathered up their music and headed back out to class, though, Blaine saw Rachel Berry duck away from the doorway of the choir room, her eyes clouded with grudging admiration. "You were really good," she said.

He ran a hand over his unruly curls. "Uh, thanks."

"He's better than  _good,_  Berry," Santana shot back. "He's  _terrific."_

"Yeah, well, this is kind of my last shot," he said hastily, trying to pacify them both. He really didn't want to start a fight. "Pretty soon my voice will change and that'll be the end for me. It's anyone's guess whether or not I'll be able to sing at all after that."

"That kind of sucks," Rachel said, giving him a sympathetic look. "I hope you get to be a singer again. Like I said... you're good."

Blaine had to wait until after school to call Dave, but he told him about the solo right away. "I can't believe she talked me into it," he moaned, hiding his face in his hand. "I'm going to choke, or throw up, or faint or something."

"Forget that, Anderson," Dave said, and Blaine could hear his grin. "You're going to sing the hell out of it."

He took a deep breath and listened to Dave's voice. "Yes," he told himself. "It's going to be fine."

"More than fine," Dave said. "I know Santana. If she thinks you're good, you're good."

Blaine wrinkled his brow in surprise. "You've never heard me sing before."

"Just for Francie and Sarah. But you sounded fine to me."

"This needs to be better than  _fine_ , Dave. This needs to be  _perfect_."

"It will be," Dave said knowingly.

"How can you be sure?" Blaine  _needed_  to know, needed reassurance.

"Because it's you," Dave's voice sounded crackly. "You're perfect, Blaine. You'll be fine."

Blaine sighed. "I'm not perfect," he said, but Dave was interrupting him.

"Don't give me that shit, dude. You're fucking awesome, and you're going to nail it."

"Language," Blaine muttered as an afterthought, but the line was already dead, Dave moved on in haste to whatever else was going on. And all Blaine could hear in the echo of the empty connection was  _you're perfect you're perfect you're perfect_.

* * *

The rest of the choir had to wear their ugly black and white outfits, but Blaine was in his best tuxedo, and Santana looked easily sixteen in her long black gown. "Britt's got seats right in the front," she said, smiling with excitement. "She said she would. And there's Kurt." She waved a hand from the wings, trying to catch his eye, but there was no way the audience could see them from where they were.

"Oh, Kurt," Blaine nodded, adjusting his bow tie. "I remember him, kind of. From third grade. He was the one who lost his mother."  _The one like me,_  he didn't say.

Santana's smile subsided. "Is your dad here, or your mom?"

"My mom," he said. They never did anything together anymore, since the divorce had become final. It was better, for everybody, he told himself. For one thing, he didn't have to feel that stifling anger in their every unspoken word. Now his dad had moved away, up to Columbus, and his mother was in the house alone. Things were quieter, but otherwise they weren't really all that different. "My dad comes to all the boy choir stuff, and she comes to the school choir performances."

He knew Santana understood, somehow, probably better than just about anybody else. After all,  _her_  dad had left Marisol, way back when, for some younger woman. Blaine hadn't yet heard about a younger woman in his dad's life, but from the hurt, haunted look on his mother's face when she got off the phone with him, he was pretty sure there was one.

They were opening the program, which meant the first notes anyone would hear would come out of  _Blaine's_  mouth. This was somehow more terrifying than just about anything else about this whole experience, and Blaine nearly hyperventilated before Santana got him calmed down.

"They're just a bunch of middle school kids," she said, petting his shoulder with certain calm. "They wouldn't know awesome if it walked up and bit them on the behind. But you've got something, Blaine. I know it, and I wouldn't tell you that if it wasn't true."

She stared at him pointedly until he capitulated, nodding, and she kissed his cheek. "Just don't forget it."

"You're not going to make me grab your boobs again, are you?" he muttered, wiping his sweaty palms on his tuxedo pants.

The auditorium was only half-full, but Blaine saw Britt smiling at them from the front row as they applauded their entrance, and he gave her a little smile back. Kurt looked pleasantly expectant.

The accompanist began the opening bars, and Blaine lost himself in the song. He couldn't close his eyes, not here on stage, but he used the trick he'd learned from his Boy Choir director of looking at a spot at the back of the hall, at nothing in particular, but looking at it as though it were the most important person in the world. Blaine wasn't exactly sure who that person might be, but he knew - without a doubt - that it was a boy. And someday, he'd sing to  _him_  like this. He hoped. Assuming his voice changed into something reasonably pleasant.

Blaine squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and sang his heart to the someday boy in the back of the auditorium. He hoped that, wherever he was, he could hear him, because he was pretty sure this would be the last time he was ever going to sound like  _this_  on stage.

* * *

There were plenty of boys at the back of the auditorium, but they weren't really listening. They didn't really understand what magic was being made on that stage. Only one of them heard Blaine's voice and knew him for who he was.

He tightened his hand around the green paper enclosing the bouquet of roses and carnations - safely yellow, even though that was not Blaine's color - and had to lean back against the brick wall of the dark auditorium to keep from staggering. He blinked back fucking ridiculous tears and looked away from the boy in the tuxedo. The roses were quickly losing their petals as he made a nervous tattoo against his thigh.

When Blaine hit the high note a second time - he had no idea what note it was, but it was really, really fucking  _high -_  that was it. He threw himself out the door and into the safety of the hallway, back outside to the cool fall night, and gasped for air.

He had no idea why he was here, but he sure wasn't sticking around to hear the end of that song. Digging a hand in his pocket, he found his phone and snapped it open.

"Dad?" said Dave, tossing the bouquet into the garbage can. "Can you come pick me up? I'm done here."

* * *

**summmer before Ninth Grade**

Blaine laced up his sneakers and set the timer on the dumb digital watch his dad had gotten him when he'd decided on soccer instead of cross country or football for his freshman fall sport. The coach had told the whole JV squad that they  _had_  to run for half an hour every day, even on practice days, to build up their endurance. And Blaine knew that his endurance  _sucked,_ so he always did an extra fifteen minutes. Maybe someday he'd even be able to play a whole game without puking.

He liked to do his running really early, before the sun was all the way up, because it was just too hot otherwise. And if he timed it right, he'd hit the park just as the sprinklers were coming on, and he could just lay in the grass and breath and enjoy the way the water droplets looked like glass on his eyelashes.

The neighborhood was always quiet, just Blaine's footfalls on the pavement, and sometimes Mrs. Tierney from down the street with her twins in the baby jogger, but this morning it was just Blaine. Until he hit the edge of the park and saw another figure there, gray t-shirt and red shorts, pounding out his own morning run.

Dave.

Blaine hadn't talked to him in months, not since spring, when they'd had another one of their same stupid fights about Blaine being gay and Dave being unsure and scared. Blaine tried and tried to convince Dave that it was okay, that  _all_ of it was okay, that he didn't have to know everything yet, but Dave had just gone silent and angry, and they hadn't even texted after that. Blaine figured he'd never see Dave again, especially after his dad had sent in the deposit for his first semester at Catholic.

But now he would get to say goodbye. He kicked up his pace, and took a shortcut over the grass of the field instead of staying on the path.

"Dave!" He called out, his breath coming in short gasps. God, he  _hated_  running.

Dave slowed to a stop, glanced back, and glowered at Blaine. Blaine worried that maybe he'd take off, and 45 minutes a day or not, Blaine was never going to be able to catch him. But he waited, bent over with his hands on his knees until Blaine reached him.

"Anderson." Dave just stared at him, his too-new sneakers and the stupid Catholic Athletics t-shirt he wore because he didn't even have decent running clothes. "Fuck you."

"What?" Blaine shook his head, confused.

"You're going to fucking  _Catholic?_  I thought- I thought you were coming to McKinley." Blaine could see Dave's face tightening up, closing off. He knew that he had brief minutes to reach Dave before he shut down and was gone completely.

"My dad. It's my dad. He-" How to explain what it was like now that his dad was living in Columbus, now that everything was about  _giving Blaine the best_  like it was some kind of reward for coming out the other side of the fighting and the lawyers and the stupid family court judge who only pretended to care what Blaine wanted? "My parents got divorced, and my dad wants me to go to Catholic."

"So you're just  _going_?" Dave was almost whining, a sound Blaine hadn't heard from him in years.

"Yes, Dave. I'm just going. What would  _you_ do, huh? It's not like I have a choice."

"But this year. We were- you were-" Dave ran a hand over his face and turned his back to Blaine for a heartbeat, like he was trying to escape. "We were finally going to get to be at the same school. It was all supposed to be okay now."

Blaine was having trouble understanding, but that may have been because he still couldn't draw a full breath.  _In through your nose, out through your mouth_ , he could hear his coach saying, but Blaine tried that  _all the time_  and it never helped, he still could never catch his breath.

"What was supposed to be okay?" Blaine  _needed_  to know, needed to hear what Dave hadn't been telling him for fucking  _years_.

"We were going to get to be friends now," Dave said plaintively. "I mean, like  _real_  friends instead of whatever  _this_  is."

"What  _is_  this, Dave? Because I thought we  _were_  friends."

Dave wandered over to the grass and dropped down, stretching out so he was propped on his elbows, and Blaine decided to join him.

"We're something," Dave whispered. "I just don't know what, and that makes it  _hard_ , y'know?"

Blaine nodded, because he  _did_ know. He always wanted to call Dave his friend, to talk about the things they did together and talked about, but none of his friends even knew that he  _knew_  Dave. "Do you really think we'd have been friends though, if I went to McKinley? I mean, you're like a jock-in-training, and I would have done theater or choir or something like that."

"It shouldn't matter," Dave said, tugging a tuft of grass out of the dirt and shredding it between his fingers, letting it fall over his bare knees.

"But  _everything_  matters now," Blaine said. "We're going to high school, and it's supposed to be big and different. Like a new start or something."

"I don't want a new start," Dave said, almost a whisper. Blaine could hear something there, in his voice, something like wanting.

Blaine reached out into the space between them and rested his arm lightly against Dave's. He felt Dave stiffen, but he didn't pull away. "What  _do_  you want, Dave?"

Dave looked away, and Blaine followed his gaze over to a bush where the silky remnants of a spider web were glistening with dew.

"You know the babies float away on little strands of silk?" Dave turned a sad smile on Blaine.

"Yeah," Blaine whispered. "They go off and make their own homes, alone, and they're okay."

"How can they be? I mean- it feels so bad, being alone." Dave pressed his shoulder against Blaine's, and Blaine pressed back.

"You're not alone, Dave," Blaine told him. "You have me."

"No," Dave all but roared, rising to his feet and stalking away. "You're  _leaving_  me, Blaine. Now we're never going to be together like I thought, and it's all just  _wrong_."

Blaine scampered to standing, and jogged over to where Dave was. He fought the urge to put an arm around the other boy, because he knew that was the fastest way to send him running, but what he really wanted to do was take Dave in his arms and pull him back against his chest. "I'm not leaving you. I'm just going to school across town."

"We're going in different directions." Dave shook his head. "You're going  _places_ , and I'm just going to be another Lima Loser who's too scared- too-  _crap_."

"Too what, Dave?" Blaine let his voice go soft, caring.

"Too fucking chicken."

"To do what?" Blaine's heart was pounding in his chest, and he was a little afraid that he'd pushed Dave too far, but still Dave stayed.

"To tell the fucking  _truth_ ," Dave ground out. "To tell  _you_  the truth, because you're the only person I trust."

"What's the truth?" Blaine knew the answer, and Dave  _knew_  he knew, but none of that mattered. Blaine remembered what it had felt like, telling Paula and Santana. Like he was going to pass out, or  _die_. Like the world was going to end.

"You  _know_ ," Dave hissed. "You've  _always_  known, and I  _hate_  that I can't hide it from you."

"You don't have to," Blaine soothed. "You know, I'll always keep your secrets."

"Fine." Dave wheeled around and glared at him. "I'm a fucking queer, okay? And I fucking  _hate_  that I can't change it. And this year? This was supposed to be you and me against the world, because I never feel right about myself without you, and now you're fucking  _leaving me._  I  _hate_  you, Blaine. I fucking  _hate_  you, okay?"

Blaine stepped back like he'd been shocked. He'd never seen Dave so angry, so in his face, and he was a little scared even though he knew Dave would never hurt him.

"I'm not-" He tried to find the words to settle Dave, but there was nothing there, nothing left to put between them.

"Yeah,  _dude_. You are. So just.  _God_ , just  _go_  already, okay? Just fucking leave me alone, because I can't look at you anymore. It hurts too much." Dave was shrinking right in front of Blaine, losing his bluster and melting into a scared little boy.

"Are- are you  _sure?_ " Blaine swallowed around a lump in his throat. He didn't want to leave, because it felt like giving up. On what, he didn't know, but it made him sad anyway.

"Please." Dave's words were choked, and Blaine knew that Dave hated crying in front of him.

"Bye, then," he whispered, turning towards where the breeze was picking up the last of the old silver web.

Towards home.

Alone.


	10. Ninth Grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic violence. -amy and knittycat

**Ninth Grade**

"I said yes," Blaine exclaimed, his phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder while he logged into Facebook.

"I suppose congratulations are in order?" Santana's voice was low, and Blaine could hear girls squealing in the background.

"Where  _are_  you?" Blaine had never figured Santana for a screaming crowd of teenage girls kind of girl.

"In the hall outside of the gym. Britt and I made Cheerios."

"Breakfast cereal?" Blaine didn't understand, and having to shift gears from  _cute boy agreed to go with me to the dance_  to  _Cheerios_  was a little too much after a long day of school.

"Cheerleading, dork. The Cheerios rule this fucking school. I'm on my way to being the Queen Bitch around here."

"Uh huh," Blaine muttered, tugging his tie loose and settling at his desk. Santana had always been a little on the controlling and bossy side, but he'd never thought of her as a  _bitch._ It was a little hard to take sometimes, the way Santana had changed since she'd gone to public high school.

"Are you even paying attention, Blainers?" Santana teased. "Prince Charming got you distracted?"

"No," Blaine said, defensive, and stared at the blinking cursor in his status window.

_Blaine Anderson_  what? He ran the possibilities over in his head.  _Got asked out by a boy?_

He let his fingers hover over the keyboard, and settled with simplicity.  _Blaine Anderson has a date for his first high school dance._

"Well," Santana kept talking, and Blaine set his phone to speaker so he could listen to her while he changed out of his uniform. He  _hated_  the stiff collars on his button-down shirts, and the way the knot of his tie kind of dug into his neck. But Catholic was really strict about the uniform policy, and he'd already gotten three uniform demerits since school had started. He couldn't have any more, or his dad was going to make him quit Boy Choir, like singing was some kind of reward for good behavior or something. "You have to come to my first game!"

"Huh?" Blaine had pretty much lost track of the conversation, and Santana's enthusiasm jolted him out of his daze.

"Dork. My first football game. You'll come, right, and watch me cheer?"

"Yeah," he said, trying to feel enthusiastic. He  _did_  like football, and Santana  _was_  his best friend, even if they didn't get to talk or hang out as much now that he was at Catholic and she was at McKinley. "Just let me know when."

"We're still going to the movies this weekend, right? Because seriously, I  _miss_  you, Blaine." It had gone quiet on Santana's end of the phone, like she had tucked herself into a corner or something to finish the call.

"Yes.  _Please_. I can't- I just- God. You have  _no idea_  what Catholic is like." Blaine hadn't told anyone how much he  _hated_  it there.

Santana snorted at him. "My cousin Tia had a scholarship there, but then she got knocked up her junior year. So I know  _exactly_  what Catholic is like. I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay," Blaine said out of habit, even though nothing was okay and they both knew it.

"We'll go to the movies and talk about boys, and Auntie Tana will make it better, okay?"

Blaine laughed, because Santana liked to meddle in his life, and while it was sometimes annoying he kind of liked it.

"Sounds like a plan," he said. "Gotta go, baby.  _So_  much homework."

" _Dork_ ," she laughed, and ended the call, leaving Blaine to the solitary confines of his room.

* * *

"How's this one?" she said, holding up the shirt to Blaine's chest. Before he could respond, she shook her head. "No. The color's all wrong. Can you find one in red?"

"I don't really need a new shirt, Santana," he said, laughing. "You've seen my closet."

"That's exactly my  _point."_ She stared at him. "I'd like to blame your fashion sense on the fact that you have to wear those stupid uniforms, but I can't. You never had any to begin with. So I'm here to take care of it. Try those pants."

"Those are- um.  _Tight_."

She rolled her eyes. "They're  _slim-fit,_  and stop being such a baby. You like this guy, right? You want to look good at the dance. So take the damn pants and  _try them on_. With-" she let her hands trail over cloth, flicking through green and blue and grey before settling on something that would do. " _This!_ "

She whipped the hanger off the rack, and tried to ignore Blaine's wrinkled nose.

"It's  _pink_ ," he whined.

"And you're  _gay_. Who cares? Pants. Shirt. And I know you have that black blazer you wore to the 8th grade graduation dance. Just go try them on, please."

"I don't fit into anything I wore last year anymore." He took the hangers, though, and let her shuffle him into the dressing room. It was one of the things she most appreciated about Blaine: he didn't seem to mind at all when she bossed him around. "Can you find me one?"

"What size are you now, Gigantor?" She browsed the racks nearby until she found something that might work, and handed it to him over the top of the door. "So tell me about this guy. How cute is he? Like, on a scale of one to ten."

"Ten." He sounded muffled, like he was talking through fabric. "Taller than me."

"Duh.  _Everyone_  is taller than you are. Except maybe Kurt."

" _Aaanyway_. He's in 10th grade, but we're in the same section in choir, and he's in my English class. His name is Dylan." Blaine said his name like a prayer, and Santana could tell that he was totally gone on the guy in a pretty innocent way, like he'd been with Julian back in middle school. Santana kind of didn't get that, the whole romance thing, but since she'd been spending lunch making out with Puck she was starting to think that romance was overrated anyway.

"Older man. I approve." She nodded even though Blaine couldn't see her. He needed someone who would treat him right, because he didn't always know himself very well.

"He's really nice, though. You should hear him sing. He has an amazing tenor. I'm trying to get him to join the Boy Choir." He emerged from the dressing room and gave a little twirl. "What do you think?"

She whistled. "Very hot. He's never going to be able to keep his hands off you."

She watched Blaine blush, and the smile he gave her was sheepish but kind of proud. "You think?"

She pushed past him and gathered up all the remaining clothes from the dressing room, hanging them on the rack outside. "Yeah, and you'd better be ready for it, too. You don't want to find yourself in a position to get it on without being prepared. You have condoms, right?"

" _Tana!"_ He sounded scandalized. "It's my  _first date!_  We're not going to-  _you know_."

"Oh, my sweet, naiive Blainers." She patted him on the shoulder and clucked at him. "You're so funny. Chances are, you're right. But you should be prepared anyway." She had a strip of condoms in her purse; she'd tuck them into the bag of clothes, and that way he wouldn't have to be embarrassed about it. She knew people thought she was kind of a slut, but at least she was being smart. She had  _plans_ , and she sure as hell wasn't going to end up pregnant at 17 like her cousin Tia.

"I've never even  _kissed_  a boy," he whispered through the door of the dressing room, tossing the pants, shirt, and blazer over the top of the door.

Santana gathered the clothes into her arms. "You can practice with me, if you want. Or I could call Britt and  _she_ could practice with you. She's a  _really_  good kisser."

He wrinkled his eyebrows and shuddered. "No. No girls. That's just - ew. Not for me. You can have her."

"Well, she's got this thing about wanting to kiss everybody in school at least once. I'm not sure if I want to encourage her to set her sights on Catholic as well." She handed him the folded clothes. "Go forth and spend, Blainers. Don't forget we have to get shoes too."

* * *

All Blaine had said was that he was going to the dance. Not that he had a date, and  _definitely_ not that the date was a  _boy_ , so he hadn't argued too hard when his dad offered to drop him off at the school.

"You have a ride home, right?" his father asked as Blaine slid out of the car, absently straightening the hem of his blazer.

"Yeah. Dylan's dad is going to drive everyone home."  _Everyone_ , Blaine thought.  _Just the two of us._ He kind of hated lying to his father, but he also knew that the truth wouldn't be well-received, so in some ways it was just easier to let it go.

"Have fun, son," his dad called, and Blaine slammed the door in hasty escape. He could already hear the music from the open gym door, and when he got closer he saw Dylan lingering just inside, smiling at his approach.

"Hey," Dylan said softly, his green eyes crinkling, as he held his hand out.

Blaine shot a nervous glance around them before tentatively sliding his own hand into Dylan's. It felt-  _nice_ , even if there were butterflies dancing a two-step in his stomach.

"You okay?" Dylan led them into the gym, and snagged two chairs near the refreshment table, handing Blaine a cup of pink-ish punch with another smile. "I doubt it's spiked."

Blaine sipped suspiciously, but there was no booze, only generic fruit drink with slightly flat club soda. Or at least that's what it tasted like. "Nope," he said, shaking his head. "Not spiked."

"I guess I won't have an excuse for dancing like an idiot, then," Dylan said, bobbing his head in time to the music.

"I've never- um. Been to a dance. Unless you count the 8th grade graduation party, which I don't because I took my best friend, and well. She's a  _girl_. So." Blaine willed himself to  _shut up_ , because he was doing his stupid nervous talking thing and that usually sent people running away from him, but Dylan just nodded like he understood everything.

"I took a girl to my 8th grade dance, too. But last year, when I went to Homecoming with another boy, well.  _Controversy! Scandal!"_

Blaine giggled ( _God, really, giggling?)_ at the way Dylan let his voice trill mockingly, and then felt bad when the other boy's face went suddenly serious.

"It's part of why I ended up here. My parents, the school." He shook the thought away in an instant, and held his hands up in a shrug. "But what can you do?"

"We can dance!"  _Dork_ , Santana's voice teased in his brain, and he hung his head, worried that he'd been too forward  _again_.

"Good," Dylan said, taking his hand more readily that time and tugging him onto the gym floor and into the crowd of kids already there, moving to the music.

It really wasn't much different dancing with Dylan than it had been dancing with Santana, just fun and freedom, and Dylan danced almost as crazy as Blaine did. It made Blaine feel a little more comfortable being himself, exactly as he was, when he saw Dylan smiling at him as he did what he would have considered to be a stupid move.

When the music shifted, and the lights dimmed, Blaine ducked out of the crowd back towards their seats, but Dylan grabbed his hand and pulled him close.

"Dance with me," he said, his breath cooling the skin behind Blaine's ear where a little trickle of sweat had trailed out of his hair.

"Um," Blaine stuttered. "But-  _everyone's watching_." He tried to fight Dylan's hand on his back, suddenly nervous and a little uncomfortable. "I don't know if I can-"

Dylan shook his head. "Nobody cares what we do. They're watching each other." He smiled, his teeth white and even. "The only person watching you is  _me."_

"Oh- okay." Blaine tentatively shuffled closer, and let Dylan lead.

He was warm and smelled like his aftershave, which was a little strong, but Blaine didn't care. There was a boy in his arms, and that was pretty incredible all by itself. Except . . . incredible didn't feel like enough. Blaine wanted there to be more. He wanted breathless and electricity even more than he wanted the comfortable he was currently feeling.

"You okay?" Dylan's voice was muffled in the shoulder of Blaine's blazer, but he sounded like he was genuinely concerned. "Because if you're going to freak out, we can stop."

"No," Blaine replied. "This is . . . fine." And it was, perfectly fine. But not everything, and Blaine was a little disappointed.

Dylan's eyes were dilated, and his breath was coming a little faster. "You're really great, Blaine."

"You're um, great, too." Blaine hoped the reluctance in his voice didn't show through.

He stroked Blaine's back and pulled him a little closer. Blaine wasn't sure what to do about that, so he just let him.

"We could- um. The hallway?" Dylan tipped his head towards the doors leading out into the dark corridor, and Blaine swallowed around his nerves, figured  _what the hell_ ,  _why not_. It wasn't like things were going to go very far; they were at  _school_ , after all, and Blaine had never even kissed a boy before. And sometimes, it felt so good  _not to think_  about things before he did them.

"Yes," he said, a little breathless from anticipation.

The air in the hall was cool, not closed-in or stuffy like the gym, and Blaine hadn't even realized there were so many dark corners in the school until Dylan had tucked them into one, between the drinking fountain and the soda machines outside of the cafeteria.

"Wait," he said, touching his hand to Dylan's chest. "I've never- um." He licked his lips and ducked his eyes. "Never kissed a boy," he said, shyly.

"Don't be scared," Dylan said, tipping Blaine's chin up slightly. "Kissing boys is fun."

Dylan's lips were gentle against his before he could even formulate a response. It felt  _good_ , soft and warm and the right kind of wet that sent shivers down Blaine's spine.

"This is so perfect," breathed Dylan against his mouth.

Blaine could tell, even through the haze of a new experience, even in his excitement about the dance and his first date and everything, that this wasn't  _perfect._  If it were - if this were  _it_ \- well, that would be a little... disappointing.

"Mmmm. Nice." Blaine could tell that Dylan wanted more, by the way his hands and body were moving, so he backed a little further into the corner, so that his back was against the wall. He rested his head there, and closed his eyes. And let his body just take over, because  _thinking_  about the not-quite-rightness of Dylan's hands, warm on his skin _,_ would have ended things right there. And maybe Blaine's head hadn't joined his body in the game, but his body was  _sure_  enjoying things.

He was angling his hips, trying to get any kind of friction against Dylan, the two of them a little disheveled and a  _lot_  breathless, when Blaine was startled by voices. He lifted his head from Dylan's neck and whacked his head against the wall.

"What the  _hell_?" A shadow growled from the hallway, but Blaine couldn't see who it was because of Dylan's body in his way.

" _Shit,"_  Dylan muttered, tucking his clothes back into place and smoothing down his hair. Blaine mirrored his motions, feeling much less exposed with his blazer back on his shoulders and his pants buttoned.

"Who-?" Blaine started to ask, but Dylan's finger was firm against his lips. Dylan shook his head, eyes wide, before turning to face out of the little alcove they were in.

"Problem, gentlemen?" Dylan's words dripped with honey.

"You bet I have a problem, faggot, with you sucking face with your  _boyfriend,_ here in my hallway." They were upperclassmen, three of them, bigger and heavier and a lot scarier, out of uniform, here in the dark than they'd ever seemed during school hours. One of them reached out and pushed Dylan's shoulder back, slamming it against the wall.

"We can go," said Blaine, but Dylan put a restraining hand on his chest.

"It's a free country, Yerrick. How many hallways does this school have? Why don't we just agree to be in two different ones, tonight?"

Yerrick sneered at the two younger boys over his crossed arms. "You really think I'm going to let you out of here with your face intact?"

"What's going on here, boys?" The icy voice came from down the hall, and Blaine looked with relief to see the petite form of Ms. Hargraeves, his Biology teacher, clacking up the hall in the same skirt, blouse, and heels she'd worn to teach in that afternoon.

Yerrick jumped, moving swiftly out of the way. "N-nothing," he stammered, and Blaine almost laughed at the sight of a Varsity lineman cowed by a  _teacher_.

"They were giving us trouble," Dylan said, his voice trembling lightly as he pulled Blaine out into the hall with him. Blaine could feel Dylan's hand shaking, so he squeezed it in comfort.

"Dylan. Blaine." Ms. Hargreaves nodded at them. "Having fun, I take it." her lip curled into a barely-there smile, and Blaine had to work not to smile back. "Why don't you two go back inside. I'll take care of things out here."

"But they were-" Yerrick tried to surge forward, and one of his buddies grabbed his shoulder, held him back.

"They're just underclassmen queers," the kid muttered. "They're not worth it."

"I won't tolerate hate speech," Ms. Hargreaves bellowed, and while Blaine wanted to stay and watch, he instead let Dylan steer them back to the gym.

"Are you okay?" He rested his hand on Dylan's arm. "You know them?"

Dylan shook his head. "Yerrick's had it out for me since the first day of school. He's just a stupid kid. And yes, I think I'm okay."

"Do you want some punch? Or to dance some more?"

Dylan held out a still-shaking hand. "Would you be okay if, um. I think. I want to go home."

Blaine nodded. "I understand."

They walked together, not touching, but Blaine watched Dylan anxiously as they got their coats and he called his father for a ride home.

"Do you want to wait in here or outside?" Dylan asked when he'd hung up his phone.

"It's kind of warm in here. Outside, please." Blaine was feeling restless, and if he couldn't dance the adrenaline of the whole night away, he'd at least be able to pace it away on the sidewalk outside of the gym.

"It shouldn't be long, we don't live far." Dylan held the door open, and Blaine breathed deeply, letting the fall air settle into his lungs.

"Where did you go to school before this? All my friends go to McKinley." Blaine hadn't really talked to Dylan about things like  _that_  before.

"We lived in Dayton until the summer," Dylan said, shrugging into his jacket. "I went to public school down there, but my high school last year wasn't, um. Tolerant. And yeah, maybe I was a little over the top, but there was no reason I should have been suspended over wearing make-up."

"Really?" Blaine couldn't believe a school would do something like that.

"Yeah. I think my dad hoped that the structure here would keep me out of trouble." Dylan smiled, lopsided and a little cocky, at Blaine.

"Yeah? How's that working out?"

Dylan shrugged. "I get into a different kind of trouble now."

"You bet your faggy ass you do," came a now familiar voice in the shadows. Blaine startled, and tried to slink back towards the gym doors. His hand scrabbled for purchase on the slippery nylon of Dylan's jacket, and he could feel Dylan reaching back for him, too.

"Run," Dylan whispered to him. "This isn't your fight."

Blaine watched Yerrick and his two friends stalking up the sidewalk, and took a breath. "The hell is  _isn't_ ," he said. "I'm just as gay as you are."

"Two queers for the price of one," Yerrick said, closing in on them, rubbing his hands together.

Things moved really fast after that. All Blaine could remember later was the smell of blood and the sound of Yerrick's boot as it made contact with Dylan's side, over and over again. He thought,  _I wish I'd listened to my dad when he told me to take boxing._  Everything was shadowy after the blinding pain of a fist to his nose and the sudden shock of his head against the rough brick of the wall. He'd fallen, then, out of the protection of Dylan's body. He couldn't  _do_  anything, could barely even  _see_  anything, but as he listened to Dylan's shouts and movements growing softer and slower, he knew that he  _had_   _to try_  or they'd both end up a story on the national news. Because Yerrick's target may have been Dylan, but Blaine was never going to be able to get rid of the sound of the sheer  _glee_  in his voice.  _Two queers, two queers, two queers_ , echoing over and over in rhythm with the thunk of leather on flesh.

Blaine shifted, slowly, as best he could while trying to keep his head still, and reached into his pants pocket for his cell phone. He had to blink through blood to even see the numbers, and he hesitated for half a second between calling home and calling 911.

Half a second was too long.

"Junior fag's got a phone," one of them cackled, and in the instant after the heel of a boot slammed into Blaine's hand, everything went dark.

* * *

They didn't let Blaine in to see Dylan at all for the first two hours. He ended up sitting on a gurney in the hallway for a half hour until they could get him a space in the emergency room, spaced out on IV fluids and morphine, wondering when his mom was going to show up. He'd had enough presence of mind to tell them his full name and address, and to provide his cell phone with numbers for the nurses to call home. One of them kept coming by and checking on him, but nobody could tell him when  _anyone_  was going to be there for him.

In the end, it wasn't his mother who appeared at the side of his bed. It was his dad.

He looked . . .  _terrified,_  in a way Blaine had never seen him before. And there was a man Blaine didn't know, lingering on the edges of Blaine's drug-shrouded vision. He kept blinking, trying to  _make sense_  of everything, but he was  _so tired_  and he just couldn't.

"Dad." Blaine startled at his dad's hands, cool against the side of his face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't- I  _had_  to-"

"Blaine. What the  _hell_  is going on? I was in the middle of dinner, and I get this call, because your mother wasn't answering  _her_ phone. You were just supposed to be going to a  _dance_." His dad sounded so confused.

"We did. Dylan. Me. Um." He closed his eyes for just a second, but his dad was right back on him.

"Open your eyes, kiddo. You can't sleep yet."

"Oh. Um. Right. Three of them. The guys. Outside the gym." Blaine couldn't make his words fit together. And he was so  _sleepy_.

"Blaine.  _Blaine!"_  Blaine looked up into his father's concerned face. "Who's Dylan?"

"My date. Dylan was my  _date_ , Dad." Blaine watched his father kind of curl into himself a little bit with a sigh, and the other man was there suddenly, a hand on his father's elbow and a concerned look for Blaine.

"Sorry," Blaine said, "but who're you? I mean," he waved at his IV stand, "drugs. But I  _know_  I don't know you."

The man smiled. "I'd normally let your dad handle the introductions, but he's pretty scared for you right now. I'm Thomas. I'm a friend of your father's."

Blaine looked down to where his father was gripping Thomas' hand so tightly that his knuckles were white, and where Thomas was rubbing his thumb over the side of his father's curled fingers.

" _That_  kind of friend." Blaine nodded. "Makes so much sense now." He squinted at Thomas through the haze of pharmaceuticals. "Wow, you're a lot hotter than my date was."

Thomas laughed, and his father winced a little bit. "That was a little inappropriate, Blaine."

"It's okay, Darren. I don't mind a little teasing."

"Sorry," Blaine said. The man -  _Thomas_  - looked kind, and it looked like he really  _cared_  for his dad. He cleared his throat.

"I'll go see if I can find out anything about your friend - Dylan? - and give you two a little time alone." He let Blaine's dad's hand go and gave them a little wave. Blaine watched him go.

"Dad? What's going on?" He squinted at him. "Was that...  _your_  date?"

His dad rested a hip against the edge of Blaine's bed, and Blaine winced a little at the way the gentle motion made his head pound. "Thomas is . . . um. My p-p-  _partner_."

"Holy shit." Blaine reached for his dad's arm. It wasn't quite where he thought it would be, but he got it on the second try. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Dad... I hate to break this to you," he whispered, "but Thomas is a  _man._ "

His father's lip curled into a weird half-smile, and he shook his head. "I know that, Blaine. We, um. We've been seeing each other for almost five years. Starting when you joined Boy Choir. He lives in Columbus, and... "

Blaine tilted his head, wincing again. "Wait. I don't- I'm  _pretty_  sure that you're telling me you're gay, and that you were... having an affair with him, while you and mom were married? But it's also possible that I'm hallucinating because I have a concussion."

"You're not hallucinating, son. You're right. I am, um. Gay." Blaine watched his dad swallow around his admission, saw the emotion in his face.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Me, too. I mean, if you hadn't already figured that out."

"I think I knew about you before I knew about myself, actually." His dad scrubbed at his face with his palms. "God, Blaine. I can't- I didn't- I'm your  _father_ , and I didn't do right by you. I should have just let you be yourself, instead of pushing you so hard to be anything else. It wasn't fair of me. But I was afraid, and I didn't know what else to do."

Blaine stared at him. "Afraid - of me?"

"No. God,  _no_. Afraid of  _myself_. I fought this my whole life, and I guess I just thought that if I steered you in a different direction then you wouldn't struggle the same way I did." His dad looked away.

He concentrated very hard on staying focused on his dad's face, which was a little wobbly, and sometimes there were two of them. "Dad... I'm sorry you had to go through that. But I'm not ashamed of being gay. Even when I'm not on morphine."

"You shouldn't be, Blaine. Thomas - he helped me, to know that." He took Blaine's hands, cold from the IV fluid, and warmed them between his. "I just, I wish I'd been able to tell you that when you were younger."

"I used to get books from the library," Blaine whispered, suddenly feeling like he could share the  _world_  with his father. "And I was afraid of what you'd say if you found them, so I would hide them."

Blaine watched his father crumple then, and rode out the shift of the mattress as his father sunk down next to him and picked carefully around the IV tubing to wrap Blaine in his arms. "You must have felt so lost, Blaine. I never- I never wanted that for you, but it happened  _anyway_."

"It wasn't so bad," Blaine insisted. "Paula - at the library, she was my friend. And Davey. I wasn't alone. I'm not, now, either." He pushed his dad away suddenly, realizing who else he had, and remembering what had happened to him. "Dylan! He was hurt.  _Really_  bad, dad. I need to find out how he is."

His father's hands were firm on his arms. "Thomas is checking. If you can see him, I'll take you there myself, but you need to stay in bed right now, okay? You got really banged up. And if you're anything like me, morphine will make you really woozy. Walking wouldn't be too easy."

Blaine tried to fight for a few seconds, but every movement made lights flicker in his eyes, so he finally gave up and leaned back against his pillow. "Thanks, Dad. For, um. All of this. Being here. And telling me the truth."

"I'm just happy that you're going to be okay. You know I love you, Blaine."

Blaine just closed his eyes with a sigh. "I think I'm going to need a little time to know that for sure." He knew his words were going to hurt, and he couldn't bear to look at his father's face.

"I can understand that. It's okay. Really." But Blaine could tell from his father's voice that it was anything  _but_  okay. His dad didn't let the silence sit between them, though. "I know you're worried," he said gently, "so why don't you tell me a little bit about this Dylan, while we wait?"

* * *

Ms. Hargreaves was at her desk marking what looked like lab reports when Blaine knocked on her door during his free period between PE and choir. She looked up at his knock, though, and smiled at him, waving him into the room. He closed the door behind him.

"Uh oh," she said, capping her pen and setting it on her desk. "A closed door. This can't be good."

"Yeah," he sighed. "Silly string. All over my clothes, in my gym locker, while we were playing volleyball. I don't know how they managed it, but...  _god._  I am so sick of this." He sank into the chair in front of her desk. "I know you told me to stick it out, but I really don't think it's getting any better."

"I'm sorry, Blaine. I thought- if you held on, they would  _have_ to get tired of it, but it's not my imagination that it's getting  _worse_ , is it?" She looked defeated, and sad.

He nodded, eyes cast down. "I'm trying, I really am."

"You're doing just fine," she told him. "Fighting them off isn't your job. It's mine. It's every teacher here. The principal and the counselors. But every time I bring it up, I just get stonewalled. I feel like I'm not doing my job, because I can't make it better for you."

"No, really, Ms. Hargreaves, you've been amazing. I - I don't think I could have made it through this year without you. Things with my parents have been... tense. And after Dylan - left, I just..." He rested his head in his hands. "I think I need to find a way to start over."

"What are your plans for next year? If you're not staying here? I mean, you're not planning on staying here, are you?" She looked almost frantic at the thought of it.

"My mom wants me to go to McKinley. I have some friends there, it wouldn't be so bad. But she's not around a lot, and it's kind of lonely here. Thomas wants me to live with him and my dad in Columbus, go to school there. It would be easier, I guess. No commute to Boy Choir, in any case." Blaine shrugged.

"What do  _you_  want to do?" Ms. Hargreaves always asked him that, like he mattered. Like his thoughts were important.

"I don't want to go to McKinley, because I've heard stories about the things that happen there, and honestly I'd take silly string over slushies every day. And I'm not ready to live with my dad. We're still working on things, and I think we both need our space. I don't know where any of that leaves me, but I do know that I'm sure as hell not coming back  _here_."

Ms. Hargraeves gazed at him solemnly for a long moment. Then she opened a drawer and took out a booklet with a heavy cream-colored linen cover. She handed it silently across the desk to him. Blaine read it:  _Dalton Academy: Educating Young Men Since 1880._

"They're a boys' boarding school in Westerville, north of Columbus," she said. "With a zero-tolerance bullying policy, and a history of being accepting of gay students. I went looking. I think it could be a good fit for you, Blaine."

Blaine paged through the book, taking in classrooms and common areas that looked like they belonged at the kind of college he'd always imagined going to. The pages were peppered with pictures of grinning boys everywhere: walking across a quad, playing soccer,  _singing_.

"It's not cheap," she cautioned, "but from what you've told me about your father, I didn't think that would be an issue." Her smile was sad. "I just don't want you to have to deal with this anymore. You deserve to go to school and feel safe."

"It looks-" Blaine couldn't find the words.  _Amazing_.  _Unbelievable_.  _Paradise_. "They all look...  _radiant_ ," he finally managed. " _Happy_. It's just a school. It shouldn't look like  _that_."

Ms. Hargreaves smiled at him. "If it's a good fit, a school should feel like that. But most of us don't have the opportunity to have that in high school. You should grab this, if you can. Everyone deserves a chance to shine."

Blaine touched one picture, in which ten or twelve boys in uniforms were gathered in a semi-circle. snapping their fingers, caught mid-verse of some song or another. The caption read  _The Dalton Academy Warblers._

"Thank you, Mrs. Hargreaves," he said. "This might be mine."


	11. Tenth Grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the last chapter of our Blaine Anderson backstory. Warning for more violence, and drug use, and Dave angst. I feel like I need to say that Blaine is thinking some terrible things about himself here, and none of them are true. You get a little glimpse of our summer story at the end, and I can't wait to share that with you -- but not until the next Donutverse story is written and we finish with Season 1. All in good time, lovely readers. Enjoy.   
> -amy and knittycat

 

**Tenth Grade**

"Hey, New Kid." Jeff smiled in at him expectantly from the hallway. "You coming?"

Blaine looked up from his pile of homework. It had been over three months since he'd come to Dalton, and some days it felt like he would never be caught up. "Uh. Where?"

"Oh, you didn't hear? Some of us are heading out to a dance club in Dayton tonight. It's right up your alley. You like to dance, right?"

Blaine hadn't ever thought he did, even before the Sadie Hawkins dance. Now he was pretty sure he'd never set foot on a dance floor again. "Not for me, man. But thanks for the invitation. I've got - " He gestured at the pile of notebooks and papers. Jeff shook his head.

"No, no. It's  _Saturday._  You need to learn to relax. You're never going to make it here with that all-work-no-play attitude. Trust me, you should come tonight. Nick's scored some good stuff."

Blaine wrinkled his nose at Jeff. "Well, I guess I could drive. My station wagon would fit at least four."

"Perfect. Come on, let's go check with Nick about who's going." He held open the door while Blaine scrambled into his shoes, but put up a hand when he attempted to follow him into the hall. "Wait a second - you can't wear  _that._ "

"What's wrong with this?" Blaine glanced down at himself, perplexed. "Are you trying to tell me I have no fashion sense?"

"Yes." Jeff pulled open a drawer, then another, and came up with a green t-shirt that was a little small on Blaine. "This. Goes with your eyes. And those jeans are fine."

"But that's too tight!" Blaine struggled into the shirt anyway.

"Are you kidding?" Jeff's hands on his biceps were a little too familiar, and Blaine pulled away, grinning uncomfortably. "You're hot. Just, come on. It's a long drive."

Blaine's offer to be the designated driver was laughed down by Trent. "I've got asthma, so I can't partake anyway," he said. "And my minivan seats eight. You can ride shotgun and keep me company on the ride home, while these guys are buzzing their asses off."

"Oh, no," Jeff laughed, looping an arm around Nick's waist. "He's going to be joining us, you can bet on that."

"I wouldn't count on it," Blaine warned him. It wasn't as though he'd never had a drink, or even been pretty damn tipsy a few times. It was more that  _now_  was not the time to set himself up as the unpredictable, impulsive kid. Here, at Dalton, had a chance to be the kind of boy his father had always wanted him to be, and not Blaine the Spaz.

Nick grinned at him, patting his pocket. "It's the good stuff. My best source. None of that shit cut with talcum powder."

Blaine stared at him. "Um... you're not talking about drinking, are you?"

His grin broadened. "Alcohol's so high school, Blaine. And it just brings you down. You need a high that'll get you  _higher_. Trust me - this is the stuff that's going to help you make it here."

He got more than one compliment on his tight green shirt, which made Jeff nudge his shoulder. "See?" he whispered. "Hot. Trust me."

So that might be one of the reasons why, in the back of the minivan on the way to Masque, when Nick pulled out a mirror and a bag of white powder, his answer was, "All right," instead of the  _hell, no_  he'd been so sure he would use when someone offered him drugs.

It made his nose go kind of numb, and he choked a little on the way it felt in his throat, but as soon as he blinked a couple times, he was filled with this amazing sense of  _possibility._ Like he could do or say  _anything,_  and it would be okay. Better than okay. He turned wide eyes on Jeff.

"I know, right?" Jeff whispered, his pupils huge and luminous. "You ready to dance?"

Blaine hopped out of the minivan with a radiant grin. "Absolutely."

* * *

Santana sighed, checking her phone. When Blaine called her this late, she knew it must be something complicated. Sometimes he talked a mile a minute, and sometimes he barely said two words, but it was always  _something._

"Hey, cielito. What's up?"

"We just got back from the club. Remember, the one I told you we were going to in Dayton?"

She glanced at the clock. "It's only one-thirty. Why'd you come home so early?"

"Something happened - I don't know. God, 'Tana, I don't know how to say this." She heard him take a deep breath. "I met somebody. A boy."

"Way to go, Anderson!" She grinned. Blaine definitely needed a boyfriend. "What's his name?"

"Um, I don't know." He gave a strangled giggle. "I never asked him. We just had a drink. And danced. And... made out in the back room?"

" _Blaine Anderson,_  you did  _not!"_  Santana knelt straight up on the bed. She was laughing - until she realized he wasn't. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know." She heard him sigh.

She extended her feet over the edge of the bed, slowly. "Well, was it any good?"

"It was... unbelievable. I've never felt like... like  _that._ " He sounded a little awed. "If kissing is always like that, I'm never going to want to do  _anything else._ "

"Well, good kissing is like that." Santana thought about the difference between kissing Brittany and kissing Puck. They were both good, both hot - but definitely different. "So do you at least know where he goes to school? Maybe we can track him down."

"I don't really know  _anything_  about him. He's a little taller than me, dark complexion - maybe Jewish? Really well built... oh, and he has this mohawk."

Santana's thoughts ground to a halt.  _Oh, shit._

"His eyes are kind of green and kind of brown, really intense - and he's funny, 'Tana, and  _oh my god_  is he hot."

"Yeah," she said, resting her head in her hand. "Um. Blaine, do you really think hooking up with a random guy in the bar is a good idea? I mean, you don't know anything about him."

"I don't know. I mean,  _no,_  it's not, but - I can't stop thinking about it. I mean, have you ever had a kiss like that, where it makes you feel things, all the way down into your bones?"

"Y-eeessss," Santana said tentatively.

She heard him groan. "God,  _why_ didn't I get his name? I feel like such a  _dork."_

She took a deep breath. "Okay, Blaine. This is what you're going to do. You're just going to put him out of your mind, do you hear me? Because any day now, you're going to meet some wonderful guy, and he's going to be exactly what you need. Somebody who can - who can give you everything."  _Somebody not as messed up, or with as many other boyfriends, as Noah Puckerman._

"I'll try." He sounded doubtful. "But, 'Tana, I've kissed a bunch of boys. Not, like, hordes, but a fair sampling, and - it's never been like  _this._  I don't want to have to wait around for Mr. Right." His voice cracked. "I think... I think I found him."

" _Blaine._  You can't be serious. Hormones make people say all kinds of crazy things." This was going to be bad.  _Worse_  than bad.

"It's not  _hormones_ ," he growled into the phone, suddenly angry. "I'm not a  _girl_ , for fuck's sake. Why can't you just be happy that I met someone who I like? Someone who might  _make me happy_?"

"Blainers, of course you should have someone who makes you happy. But believe me, I've had my share of random club hookups, and none of them were the kinds of boys who were in things for the long term." Santana hadn't prayed since before her First Communion, but she repeated a silent Hail Mary in hopes that she'd be able to distract Blaine into forgetting about Puck. "You deserve happiness. But I also know you don't want one-night stands. You want romance and all that shit."

"You don't know  _anything_  about what I want. 'Tana, this boy - he had something, something I've wanted all my life, and I didn't even know I was looking for it." She hadn't heard him so broken, not in a long time. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Keep it together, Blaine. It's going to be okay. Auntie 'Tana's going to take care of everything."

* * *

Francie didn't really need a sitter anymore, but luckily for the two of them, her mother still thought she did. So Blaine got an excuse to spend time with her and make a little money at the same time. Not that his father wouldn't have given him money if he'd asked for it - but that was the point. He didn't  _want_  to ask for it.

Francie' taste in movies was definitely not the same as Blaine's, but at least they could agree on what kind of comedies they liked.  _Hopscotch_  was right up their alley: clever without being too highbrow and funny without being crass, plus Walter Matthau. They sat on the living room sofa laughing and flicking popcorn at each other, and it helped keep Blaine's mind off the boy from the club. But then the movie was over. Blaine still had to fill the better part of the afternoon, but he couldn't focus on much of anything. He felt kind of spacey, and his head hurt, and he couldn't stop  _thinking._  He wasn't sure if the cocaine had made everything so good, or if the boy had made his high better, and his brain kept circling around and around until Francie's voice snapped him back to the Preston's living room.

"I'm president of the ecology club this year," Francie said, picking the popcorn off the upholstery and making a neat pile in her hand. "But it's hard to find new members. I tried posters but they just got scribbled all over." She made a face. "Middle school is just as juvenile as elementary school."

"High school isn't really much better," Blaine said, rubbing at the headache behind his eyes. "But I'm sorry about your posters. That really sucks."

"Yeah. There's this girl in my grade, she's so- not  _annoying_ , but I just don't get her. It's like- she just doesn't care what anyone thinks about her." She fiddled with her thumbnail, looked like she was trying hard not to bite at it. "She makes everything look easy."

"Some people are like that," he said, thinking of the other guys in the Warblers. They never looked like they struggled with anything, and Blaine felt like he was just a big ball of messiness out there for everyone to stare at. Suddenly he  _needed_  to be out of the house, outside, or he felt like he was going to come out of his skin. "Can we take a walk to the park?"

"Sure," she said, startled, but she grabbed her jacket and followed him outside.

The trees were on the edge of losing the last of their leaves, and he and Francie scuffed through the crunchy ones that littered the sidewalk. "I used to love jumping in leaf piles," she said, shaking her head.

" _Used to_? Not now?" Blaine wished that Francie hadn't grown up so fast. That  _he_  hadn't grown up so fast.

"My mom says that I'm not a little kid anymore, and I have to act appropriately."

Blaine had to bite back a laugh because Francie had mastered her mother's precise delivery, but added her own deadpan that told Blaine  _exactly_  what she thought about that directive. He pulled her close and ruffled her hair lightly, and she ducked away, giggling up the sidewalk.

God, sometimes he just felt so lonely.

The park was pretty empty, since it really wasn't good outside weather for the preschool crowd. There were a trio of elementary school aged boys chasing each other on the climbing structure, and a gang of high school boys playing what looked like full-contact basketball, but Francie veered away from all of the activity to the swings.

"Will you push me, Blaine?" She climbed on and kicked her feet in the dirt.

"Aren't you too old for that?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he  _knew_  he'd said exactly the wrong thing. He sounded like Francie's mother. Like his father.  _Crap_. "Wait," he said quickly, scrambling to fix things. "Sorry. Of course I'll push you. Gets you better momentum for the jump, huh?"

"Yeah," she said softly, pumping her legs lightly as he started to push her slowly, his hands at the small of her back. It had been a long time since she'd asked him to push her on the swings, and even though she sometimes felt like his sister, something about the action felt vaguely inappropriate, and as soon as Francie was swinging high enough that he couldn't reach her, he stepped back and leaned against the metal pole to watch the basketball players.

He was kind of zoning out to the motion of Francie and the swing when a harsh voice jolted him back to attention.

"If it isn't another queer," the hulking African American boy said, pulling his lip back in a sneer. "My friend here says he knows you."

Blaine shifted his eyes to the right, and caught Dave's glance. He looked panicked, like he was caught between a brick wall and a swiftly advancing car with nowhere to go.

"N-no," Blaine muttered, shaking his head. "N-not r-really." He knew Dave trusted him not to betray their shattered friendship.

"Enough to know you're a  _fag_ ," Dave spit out before nudging his friend. "Too bad it's a weekend. He looks the right size for a locker, just like Fairy Hummel."

Blaine's heart was pounding in his chest, loud and fast. He somehow knew that Dave wouldn't do anything even close to physical violence, but he had no such faith in Dave's friend.

"Frances!" He spoke firmly, and heard her holler  _yeah_  on her way past him into the air again. "Down now, we're going home." He glared at Dave. "What did I ever do to you? You're both just scared little boys if you think some words are going to bother me." He didn't believe his own words, but he'd learned how to pretend pretty well, and it wasn't like he hadn't heard the same or worse in the halls at Catholic after the beating.

"If words don't bother you, maybe some  _action_  will," Dave's friend said, rubbing his fist in his hand.

"Z," Dave said finally, grabbing the kid by the neck of his t-shirt. "C'mon, man, he's not worth it. He doesn't even fucking go to our school, so why the hell do we care?"

"We don't," the boy growled. "There's just nothing else to do, and this damn town is turning queer everywhere. It just pisses me off."

"M-me, too," Dave stammered, and Blaine took the moment of their distraction to give in to Francie's tugging on his jacket.

"You okay?" He asked, turning to look at her worried face.

"Yeah. Let's just-"

"Go home," he finished, and she nodded. Blaine turned and waggled his fingers at Dave and Z. "Bye, boys!"

Dave's face turned pink, and Blaine didn't want to think about how he was feeling in that moment. Terrified, probably, but Blaine was plenty scared himself.

Three months at Dalton had spoiled him. He'd almost forgotten how cruel the real world could be. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

* * *

Blaine was still antsy when he left the Preston house just shy of 4 pm, the crisp folded twenties from Mrs. Preston nestled into his wallet. He was staying with his mom for the night, and she wasn't expecting him for dinner, so he had options. Dinner and a movie with Santana, dinner and a movie by himself. Coffee. But only one thing felt right about a Lima Saturday, so he turned towards the library, hoping that Paula was working.

She was, and she greeted Blaine with a smile and wave. "How's Dalton treating you?" she asked, coming out from behind the desk and opening her arms for a hug.

"Fine," Blaine nodded. "It's harder than the schools here. But the people are nicer, and I got into the Warblers, the a cappella choir there. I even have a solo for the Christmas concert, which is a big deal since I'm only a sophomore."

"That's great, Blaine. You really deserve to be happy, especially after everything." Paula took his hand and led him back to the teen section, and he gasped at the sight of Dave, curled up in one of the beanbag chairs, looking scared and small and  _hurt_. "He's been here an hour already. He won't say a word to me. Maybe you can? I think he needs a friend."

"We're not friends," Blaine admitted. "I mean, we used to be. But not in a long time."

"I don't think that matters right now." Paula sounded so sure, but Blaine couldn't say anything to tell her otherwise, not without betraying every ounce of trust he and Dave had once shared.

"Fine." Blaine steeled himself, swallowed his hurt and anger and moved softly into Dave's space.

"Hey," he said gently.

"I- I'm-  _fuck_." Dave's eyes were dark and hollow, his face drawn. "God, Blaine. I'm  _sorry_."

"I know. I know you are, but I can't accept your apology." Blaine  _wanted_  to, knew that it would mean that he was somehow the bigger man or something, but he just  _couldn't_. "I know you're hurting, Dave, but you can't go around treating people that way. You  _hurt_   _me_ , today."

"I know," Dave said, voice pitching up into a slight whine. "Z- he just- he gets stuck on these ideas, you know? And I  _have_ to go along. I  _have_  to, so they don't find out."

"Would that really be so bad?" Blaine already knew what Dave's answer would be, but he asked anyway.

"I know what happens to gay kids at McKinley, because I do most of it. It's not pretty. It's not your rich boy school." Dave scowled at him.

Blaine picked nervously at a rough spot on his thumbnail. "Do you know why I went to Dalton in the first place?"

"Because it's where rich boys go." Dave's voice was full of scorn.

"No. Because it's where gay boys go who get the shit kicked out of them at school dances. Dalton has a strict anti-bullying policy, something that none of the schools in Lima even think is important. I got a concussion and a broken hand, and I was lucky. The boy I was with had broken ribs and a punctured lung, and it could have been so much worse because one of the bastards who beat us was wearing steel-toed boots." Blaine ran his hand through his hair, and shivered at the thought of what could have happened if the guy with the boots had had better aim.

Dave had gone white. "I didn't-"

"No, you didn't know, because it sucked and I hate talking about it. But that shouldn't matter. You're the worst kind of bully, Dave, and if you're going to treat people like that... I can't be a part of your life." Blaine stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

"Don't- wait!" Dave's hand was warm and heavy around Blaine's wrist, and Blaine tugged hard, trying to free himself.

"Let  _go_ ," Blaine growled, snatching his arm back and rubbing at it to erase the sting of Dave's touch. "I have nothing left to say to you. I'm done."

"Fuck you, Blaine.  _Fuck. You_." Dave's words were shards of ice, low and cold, and Blaine shivered at the flatness he could see in Dave's eyes.

He didn't think he was a bad person. He knew Dave needed a friend, but he also knew that he couldn't look past what had happened in the park. He needed to protect himself, even if it meant giving up a part of his past.

Paula's eyes followed him as he strode past the circulation desk, and he shook his head silently at her, willing her  _don't follow me, please don't follow me_.

He barely made it outside before he was bending over, retching into the bushes and crying silently.

Fuck. He  _was_  a bad person. He was a terrible friend, and a coward, and underneath it all was the lingering rush of the club, the strange boy's hand at his throat and the flood of desire it had unleashed, for things he didn't even understand.

He was a bad person, and he wanted something that was dark and sick and wrong.

His stomach turned over again, and by the time he was able to make it to his car the slate-gray sky had opened up with freezing rain. The cuffs of his shirt were soaking, and he shivered as he rolled them up, just to get them off his skin. He sat, dazed and sick, watching the windshield wipers beat a damning rhythm against the rain:  _Fuck you, fuck you,_  over and over again.

Blaine fumbled in his pocket for his wallet, digging it out and opening to the inside pocket, the one where he might keep important cards, or emergency identification. Or a tiny envelope of white powder, that Jeff had pressed on him less than 18 hours before.  _Because the next couple days are going to suck,_  he'd said.  _This'll make it easier._  He doubted Jeff had envisioned  _this_  kind of situation when he'd said that.

He tipped the corner of the folded paper to his nose and sniffed, hard, feeling the tingle and burn hit him faster this time, mingling with the bile in his throat. It was almost comforting, the pain, because he knew he fucking deserved it.

* * *

Blaine was laying on his bed in the dark, Nirvana's Serve the Servants playing on repeat when his window creaked open.

"This better be important, Blainers. I had plans with Britt." Santana shook the rain off her coat, and shed her hat and shoes before climbing up next to him and pulling his blanket over them both.

"I suck," he said, rolling up onto his side and snaking an arm around Santana's waist.

"No, baby. You don't suck. You're a good person. You know you're my best friend, right?" She craned her neck to look at him, and he blinked, hoping she didn't notice the way his eyes were dilated.

"What about Britt?" Blaine didn't believe her, because he  _knew_  that Brittany was her best friend.

Santana was silent for a few minutes, and then she grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. "I love her," she whispered.

"Yeah, like I said, your best friend."

"No, dumbass.  _Listen_. I. Love. Her." She punctuated each word with a gentle finger in the middle of his chest.

"Oh." Damn, he was having a hard time following. "You're-"

"Blainers. I think- no. I  _know_. I'm  _gay_ , and I'm in love with Brittany." She snuggled closer to him, and he kissed the tip of her nose.

"I know," he said softly. "Thank you for trusting me."

"You're the only one I  _can_  trust," she said into his shirt.

"Yeah," he whispered into the air over her head. "I know that too."

She startled him with a light smack to his shoulder. "Someone is a little full of himself tonight."

"Nobody has ever accused me of being humble. Plenty of other things, yes, but humble isn't one of them."

Santana raised herself up on her elbows, leaning over Blaine. Her lips twisted wryly. "Cielito, you've got a lot to learn about yourself. Trust me, I've known you for ten years, and I know what you need."

Blaine blinked up at her, his mouth dry. "What do I need? I mean, I can't figure it out, so you might as well tell me."

Her eyes bore down into him. "Blaine, you're really good at pretending you've got it all together. But you're just a scared little boy who needs somebody to take care of him."

Blaine was besieged by images: the boy in the club, the way he'd moved with confidence and whispered  _I know what you need_  before Blaine had frozen; Dave, scared at the park and broken at the library, and all the cold words that had rent them apart; himself, at 14 dressed for a dance, at 12 telling a secret, at 6 hearing taunts on the school playground. All of it hurt.  _He_  hurt.

"Shhh," Santana murmured, tucking her arms around him as he began to shake. "You'll be okay. It'll all come out all right, you'll see."

"How?" he asked through tears. "Everything I want is  _wrong_."

She stroked his hair, even as she reached behind her for a tissue from the box on his nightstand. "There's nothing  _wrong_  about desire,  _m'ijo_. You want what you want. You need what you need. I think," she paused for a moment to gather herself before continuing, "the only thing that's wrong is when you close yourself off because  _other people_  think your needs are bad."

"You're the only one who really  _sees_  me, 'Tana," he whispered. "With everybody else, I can fake it, I can pretend, but with you - it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter to you that I don't know  _anything._ "

"You don't have to know anything, baby. It's okay. Just let me take care of things now, okay?" Blaine knew Santana was trying to help, trying to make things  _better_ , but the idea of anyone  _wanting_  to take care of things, of  _him_ , set him crying again.

He didn't  _deserve_  to be taken care of, but Santana's arms were tight around him and her words were balm on his raw nerves, so he just cried, and took and took and took from her until his breath was ragged and his eyes were dry.

"It's okay," she whispered over and over, her hand rubbing circles on his back. "You're okay. I've got you. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Blaine just sighed. Santana was a good friend, his  _best_  friend, and Blaine knew he could always trust her. But she wasn't the  _right_  person. She wasn't who he needed, and that thought stuck with him as he relaxed under her touch, drifting closer and closer to sleep. Safe and loved, yes, but also so very very alone.

* * *

**Summer**

Blaine was early, of course. There were only a handful of cars in the theater parking lot, so he wandered down to the coffee shop he'd passed on his way through town. When his iced coffee was doctored up just how he liked it, he walked back to the theater and joined the line snaking slowly through the lobby and into the auditorium.

He was the youngest one there by far, and he wondered not for the first time if he was out of his mind to even be  _trying_  for a part. But then he heard a voice drifting above the din of the crowd, absolutely angelic. A  _boy_ , he could see, when he craned his neck around, with looks to match his voice. Singing  _Mimi's_  part, of all things.

He shivered involuntarily, and couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he somehow knew that boy, had seen him somewhere before even if they'd never actually met.

He waited and waited, jangling with nerves that he wanted to blame on the audition but which he  _knew_  were absolutely entirely to do with the boy. Finally, though, he was alone, away from the crowd of adults who'd been prodding at him all morning, and Blaine made his move.

There was a girl up on stage doing a very undignified pole dance, and Blaine bit back a snort of laughter as he slid into the seat next to the boy. "Did she think that actually  _being_  Mimi would help? Because she's been misinformed."

The boy laughed and turned the most beautiful blue eyes Blaine had ever seen on him.

"Hi," the boy said, cocking his head and looking right to the back of Blaine's brain. "Do I know you?"

"I don't- um. Maybe. Maybe you do." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Blaine. Blaine Anderson."

The boy smiled, taking his hand in a strong shake. "I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel."

"Oh!" Blaine had to remember how to breathe. "Santana's friend."

"You're-  _wait_." Kurt blinked rapidly, and Blaine could almost see the pieces falling into place. Blaine remembered a disrupted birthday party, and a middle school concert, and the thread that had followed Blaine for so long, the idea that  _he wasn't the only one_. He didn't know what Kurt was remembering, but it didn't matter in the end.

Sitting in the dark, next to Kurt, was like everything Blaine had never known was missing. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel alone.


End file.
